Chance is but another one of Fate's Playmates
by Joby87
Summary: Weechester fic. One night, two men storm the Winchester household kidnapping the youngest and leaving the other for dead. Will John find Sammy in time or does fate have other plans for the child? Hurt Sam/Hurt Dean Scared/Fatherly John
1. Chapter 1

**Hey Guys. This is my new fic that I had been working on for quite awhile. I finally refurbished the first chapter. I hope it's alright!****Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just using them for my own evil plots. Plus, all places are made up in this story. If on the rare event that I am correct in naming a real place in the real state, it is purely coincidence.**

**Warning: this fic is really dark in the beginning and if you do not like a little bit of child abuse I suggest you do not read the next chapter. But it lightens up as it goes on. You'll see what I'm talking about.**

It was another dreary, rainy night in the isolated farm town of Cottonsmill, California. Known for its unpredictable weather, the town's residents all made their way inside when another cowering thunderstorm brewed. It was the fifth one that week and it began to make its assault by casting down tumultuous rains and torrents of wind, producing cackles of ear-splitting thunder causing the earth to tremble violently. Beams of lightening lit up the sky striking down on various sites, frightening most of the cattle and barn animals in the vast acreage.

Another beam of lightening struck the ground barely avoiding a small house located in the middle of nowhere.

Inside the lonely rented space, sat a man in his tiny kitchen at a table diligently working on mounds of research. The flash of light and the noisy grumble of the walls around him hadn't fazed him in the slightest. He pressed on, writing down numbers, addresses, or anything that would be useful for the next hunt. The engraved name Winchester gleaming off his dog-tags.

John Winchester is an interesting man. Of the many people that had the privilege to know John, they would probably describe him as hard, stoic, and an impervious-to-distractions sort of being. Most would say he reminded them of a military general: mission-oriented, emotionless, his mind dead-set on one thing and everything else can go to Hell. For the many that only briefly met him, they would probably say he wasn't anything more than a hero.

Another flash of lightening occurred followed by the rattling of the window panes. A whimper brought the man out of his momentary obsession and he turned around to see two young boys seated on the floor, the older one cradling the younger one protectively whispering reassurances into his ear, a half-played board game of Scrabble lying in front of them. John smiled at seeing the pair of them.

Yet for such a hard, good-for-none character, nobody would have expected John to be a father. Widowed at the age of twenty-nine with two sons to care for, one four years of age, the other only an infant, John did the best he could. Sure he could've kept his job as his old town's main mechanic. Sure, he could've worked two jobs like most single parents do in trying to keep their heads above water and come home longing to fall into a drunken stupor at the end of each day. Sure, he could've become one of the lonely saps that go to bars every once in a while to retell their sop story to patient hookers, who only listen with a single purpose on their mind.

But John's life was no ordinary life.

The night his beloved Mary died, John saw something. Something no husband should ever have had to witness. He saw his wife brutally murdered. But it wasn't by some clichéd lonely psychotic murderer prowling the streets. Nor was it some freak accident typically heard on the news.

No, her death was different. She wasn't killed by someone.

She was killed by something.

Some thing from a mysterious world that just recently John learned was far more vast and ancient than the storybooks let on. And so far their own world, completely oblivious to this supernatural world's existence, was held in it's icy grip, ready to be crushed.

That same night his beloved wife died, John changed. Now-a-days, no one would be able to believe that once he used to be a kind-hearted sensitive man. Mary often had a way of bringing the best out of people, even his cold-statured Marine personality. She was beautiful, caring and loving, and stubborn at the best of times; hardly knew when to quit. She loved him. She loved her sons. She made the best out of every situation and would always act upon the kindness of her heart.

Those were the days to be cherished. Now, all John's heart, mind, and soul were set on was protecting the family he had left and exacting revenge on the preternatural entity that bestowed this miserable life on him and his sons. And if that meant traveling the countryside tracking and killing every unnatural monster out there to keep his sons safe, then so be it.

It wasn't fair for his two boys to be put through this sort of existence of always remaining alert of the dark forces, to always be afraid, even if the two whippersnappers wouldn't admit it. In some ways John felt they were much stronger than he had ever hoped to be, and he couldn't be prouder.

"It's okay Sammy," he heard his older boy Dean assured, "Remember thunderstorms can't hurt you. It's the gods up there, remember? They're bowling, right?"

The younger boy nodded his head, his watery eyes peering at the window fearfully.

"And when lightening happens..."

"The gods made a strike," the little boy answered.

"That's right. See, everybody, even the gods can have fun. Now are you ready to get back to the game?"

The smile on John's face widened when he saw his youngest scramble off his brother and went back to the board game, happy and content. He knew he should've been the one to comfort Sam, but the truth was it never really was his place. He fell out of being the loving father figure when he allowed his obsession for finding his wife's killer to take over.

His oldest, Dean, at the tender age of four, innately took on the responsibility of caring for his younger sibling, especially during the time of grievance after Mary's untimely death. Dean, who looked more like his Mary with his blonde hair and piercing green eyes and delicate face, was extraordinarily precocious and intelligent…when he wanted to be. Now at the age of eleven, the boy accomplished more than any typical eleven year old was even capable of. He took care of Sammy, clothed him, offered comfort, and in many ways fathered him. Surprisingly, Dean also managed to care for John when on the rare event he would come home broken, bloody and in a psychological mess after facing a big bad nasty. And he never complained once which made John's heart soar over the moon.

Sam, however, was a different story. Though also gifted intelligibly, Sam often had the convenient tendency to find trouble or trouble would normally find Sam. It was like the kid was the classic epitome of a walking and talking Murphy 's Law in real form. If anything could go wrong, it did.

Like the time the family hung out at Pastor Jim's convent and Sam 'accidentally' climbed the bookshelf in the pastor's office, causing it to topple over and smash into the office desk, in turn causing that to fall over and scattering all of the pastor's service notes five minutes before mass was to begin. Luckily Dean was there to stall the crowd of church followers with his round of comedic jokes while the pastor located and organized his notes, all the while the five year old laid on top of the piles of books giggling incessantly at the pastor's plight.

John rolled his eyes, fighting hard to suppress a laugh at that memory. The look on his fellow friend/hunter's face was surely a Kodak moment.

Yep, Sam was a troublemaker; always recalcitrant to John's uptight regime. But Sam was lucky in that he had his big brother to bail him out on several occasions, even when sometimes Dean was the instigator. But nevertheless, the little tyke with his big mossy green eyes consistently followed his brother around, looking up to him, mimicking his every movement, pretending to be just like him. In a way, they were like conjoined twins, joined at the hip. When there's one, the other is tagging along not far behind.

John continued to watch them as they played merrily by the board game. Sam sat hunched over on his knees, his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, obviously strategizing for his next word. Dean lay on his stomach appearing impatient, tapping his fingers methodically on the carpeted floor.

"Sometime this century Sammy," Dean chided.

"I'm thinking," Sam whined.

Deciding to play with them, John walked over and sat down next to Sammy, lifting him into his lap, and began whispering little hints into the little boy's ear.

"Heeeyyyy, not fair," Dean reprimanded, "Why're you helping him? He's kicking my arse over here!"

"Arse!" Sam laughed looking at his letter bank.

"Dean, watch your language," John warned.

"Sorry sir," the kid apologized.

"Ha, arse. See," Sam exclaimed pointing at the spelled word on the board.

Dean cringed, avoiding his father's scolding glare.

"Dean."

"Sorry," Dean whispered sheepishly.

John shook his head, stifling a laugh. He was about to tell Dean it was his turn, when his cell vibrated in his pocket. Lifting Sammy off him, he got up to answer it.

"Caleb. About time," John announced heading back into the kitchen.

Sammy leaned in, "Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"What's an arse?"

Dean only had to stare at his brother.

A few minutes later, John ended his call. "Hey Dean, come here."

Immediately his little soldier came to his beckoning. He bent down looking straight into his child's bright green eyes. "It's time for me to go out again. More than likely I'll come back late tomorrow night. You know the drill."

"Yes sir," Dean answered automatically.

"Good boy. Take care of Sammy."

"I know," the boy nodded before heading back into the small living space.

John stole one last glance at the two of them before heading into the back of the house to go pack. It only took a few minutes to gather his belongings and soon he came out ready to leave.

As he headed towards the door, Sam rushed up to his side. "No daddy, please don't go. Please!"

John sighed reluctantly. He peered down at his boy clinging onto his leg. "Sammy, we've been through this. With my job I have to go. You should be old enough now to understand."

"No please," the boy pleaded, "I-I don't want you to go, not again. Stay with us."

"Sam, don't do this please," John huffed. He looked up at his other son, "Dean, come get your brother."

The tiny child squealed, stomping his foot, "Noooo daddy. Please."

"Dean?"

Dean instantly came forward at the commanding tone and pried the little boy off his father's leg. For a fleeting second, John believed that his oldest had told his youngest the truth, the grand secret. Never before had Sam pleaded desperately for him not to go.

He sighed again. "I'll be home soon," John said turning away, avoiding the distraught look on his child's face. It was better not to look back. What he had to do was important. Hopefully one day, Sam will understand that. And with that, he left out the door and into the stormy night.

Angered at his father's dismissal and equally angered at his brother for allowing his father to leave, Sam wrenched free of his brother's grasp and fled to their small bedroom in the back, slamming the door shut.

Dean flinched at the slamming of the door and the muffled cries his brother made. He understood completely for Sam's temper-tantrum. He too wanted his father to stay with them, not only to keep them company, but also because he knew what his father faced on a daily basis. Every night when John was gone, it was agonizing, holding his breath, constant with worry that one day his greatest fear will come true and he and his sibling would become orphans. Part of him knew one day it would happen. Inevitably everybody dies; he just hoped that his father would not bite the dust anytime soon.

* * *

The next day dragged by somberly. Sam was still angry and a little distant, continually straying from Dean whenever they managed to come three feet from each other. Dean had to admit it was a little aggravating. But he had to remind himself that Sam was still just seven years old, still a child, therefore he still had rights to all-out selfish stubborn acts.

It wasn't until late in the evening close to Sammy's bedtime when the little tot came ambling up to his brother, sitting next to him on the couch, appearing bothered.

Dean noticed his hesitant mood instantly. "What's wrong Sammy?"

His brother's hands twisted anxiously in his lap. Sam's expressive green eyes swiveled frantically back and forth in their sockets, indicating that he was nervous in revealing to him the matter.

Dean sat up straighter, turning the TV off with the remote. "Talk to me Sammy. What's the matter?"

"I'm scared Dean," the child spoke, his voice quivering.

"Scared about what?"

"I…I…just have a bad feeling," Sam answered.

"About what? Is it about Dad? Because if it is, he's going to be okay. He'll be fine.

You'll see when he comes home later on tonight," Dean tried to reassure, trying hard of not to think of the worst circumstance.

"No, not Dad," Sam shook his head, "I have a bad feeling something is going to happen to us."

Dean eyed him fearfully. Usually Sam was never nervous about anything, and it kind of scared him a little bit to think that instead of something happening to their dad, the tables might be reversed. Dean shook his head to rid his mind of that thought. No way was he going to let anything horrendous happen.

"What do you think is going to happen?"

"I don't know. I just have a bad feeling and it won't go away."

"Well all the doors and windows are locked, and the salt is down," Dean began, making a mental check of everything.

"I know, but why is the salt down again?"

"Uh you know. Dad is just a little superstitious that's all."

"Oh."

"Still have that bad feeling?"

Sam nodded his head solemnly.

Uncertain of what to say, Dean took a deep breath before clasping a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Don't think about that. If you're still scared, there's one thing that you can always count on."

"What?"

"Me," he gave a lop-sided grin, "No matter what, I'll be there. And if you somehow find yourself in a hole somewhere, I'll find you."

Still apprehensive, Sam calmly nodded his head again.

"Everything will be okay Sammy. I promise. I won't let anything happen to you, alright?"

Sam peered at him brightly.

Dean swiped a hand through his unruly chestnut hair giving him a comforting expression. "I'll take care of you; protect you even if it kills me. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam nodded, smiling a bit.

Unsettled by the little chick-flick moment, Dean looked up and saw the time. "Alright dude, time for bed. Let's go get your p-j's on," he hopped up dragging his little brother behind him.

"Come on Dean. Do I have to?" Sam protested.

"Yep, because Dad will be home soon and he'll have my arse hanging from the rafters if you're not in bed."

"There you go again with that word."

"Ha ha," Dean led him into the room and sat him on the bed. He crossed over to the dresser and pulled out a clean pair of jammies.

"Arms up," he ordered lifting the striped polo Sam was wearing and tossed it away, while Sam put on the over-sized navy-blue t-shirt.

"Dude you can take your pants off," Dean muttered playfully tickling his little brother's side. The child shrieked with joy running his little legs into the air. Both then joined in a round of playful antics, enjoying themselves so much, neither of them heard a vehicle pull up the gravel driveway.

The shenanigans came to an end with Dean helping Sammy into his jammie bottoms. He had just pulled back the blankets when the front door burst open with a loud crack, and two strangers rushed in.

**Hi everybody. Okay, here's the thing I know I've used the beginning portion in another fic, but I wanted to use that again here, not only because it was already written out and I was too lazy to go back and change it, but because I love the symbolism thunderstorms have and the comfort and closeness that it brings to the two brothers (when they were kids). But since it is so repetitive, I won't use it again. Hope you liked the first chapter, stay tuned as things heat up in the next chapter and may leave you a little shocked.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey Folks. Get prepared for this one, because it is intense and is certainly not suited for children…or for the squeamish. Beware…and I mean it! Abuse and torture sequence ahead. Not for the faint of heart! You definitely will think I'm deranged after this…**

The front door sustained several powerful blows before finally its weakened state succumbed to one last kick and burst open. Two big burly men rushed in—each clad in camouflage vests and hunting apparel— stopping once to look at the house's interior.

"Find him," one yelled gruffly to his partner.

The partner nodded, shifting the Red Sox ball cap on his head and ran forward. The man first headed for the kitchen while the other began to ransack the small living room.

At the sound of the intruders, Dean instantly scooped his brother into his arms and ran over to the closet.

"Dean?" Sam cried afraid.

Dean sat him down into a corner, grabbed his teddy-bear located on the other side of the small space and stuffed it into his arms.

"Shhh," Dean issued, reaching forward and pulling down some of the clothes off the hangers. "Stay here and for God's sake stay quiet," he ordered completely covering him with all the clothes and closing the door.

Dean spun around at the pounding footsteps echoing on the outside. He ran over to their door and quietly closed and locked it. Afterward, he rushed to his bed, reaching under and pulled out the rifle his father left for emergency situations. Checking to see if it was filled with rock salt, the pre-teen cocked it and knelt on one knee in front of the door leveling the firearm as trained.

Shadows appeared from under the door's rim, and the knob began to jiggle. Vulgar shouts and profane words followed by heavy pounding on the door reverberated on the outside causing the entire room to vibrate. The booming knocks echoed intensely around the room reactively causing the child in the closet to cry.

"Shhh," Dean let out before returning his attention back on the door.

"I know you're in there," one of the men clamored.

The pounding became harsher; the rim on the side of the antediluvian bedroom door bulged forward, threatening to break. Dean's grip on the handle tightened and he swallowed, continuing to concentrate.

The men on the other side of the door wailed loudly beating on the wooden structure mightily until finally the door couldn't handle the forces anymore and splintered open. The two strangers bounded into the room, the one in the front brandishing a crow bar.

Dean immediately let off a shot hitting his enemy, who reminded him more of a beefy version of Jeffthro Toll, squarely in the chest in between the man's camouflage vest, the force throwing him off his feet. The man let out a terrible shriek and began to writhe on the ground mewling painfully.

Furious at the hostility, the second man, resembling a psychotic image of Jesse Ventura, ran up emitting out a war-cry raising his arm to strike. Dean pulled the trigger again, only this time the hammer inside the gun's barrel jammed. The man at first recoiled at the sound of the trigger, but flashed a malicious grin when regaining his stance.

"No," Dean gasped fingering the trigger again and again.

The man advanced fast. Reacting instinctually, resorting to his combat training, Dean flipped the gun around and struck the handle hard into the man's genitals, quickly thrusting it upward into his nose. The Ventura look-a-like yowled loudly from the impact after biting his tongue and jerking his head back, resulting in loosing his hat. The red cap landed with a small 'plop' near the bed. Dizzy from the two main hits, the stranger went down holding his mouth.

After the brute fell to his knees, Dean took off intending on obtaining the other gun loaded with real buckshot hidden in the cabinet under the bathroom sink across the hallway. But as he nearly crossed the threshold, Jeffthro grabbed a hold of his ankle causing him to plummet to the ground.

"Yeah, I've got ya now, ya brat," the stranger sneered, reaching forward with his other hand.

Desperately, Dean kicked at his upper body, wiggling to escape his claws, "Get off me. Get off you putz."

The intruder yelped, eventually relinquishing his grasp after feeling the burn of too many kicks to his jaw-line. Dean reached out and caught the bathroom's door rim molding, pulling himself away. Crawling fast towards his destination, Dean reached again and pulled open the cabinet.

Before he could grab the weapon, strong hands came out of nowhere grappling his shoulders firmly and pulled his small body up. Dean looked up and saw it was Ventura who had him, his nose red and puffy from the hit. He struggled against the man's grip, grunting and letting slip some profanity that would make a sailor blush. He kicked and thrashed with all his might, biting and clawing at the man's vice-like hold.

"Yeah keep at it, you little shit," Ventura spat back-handing the boy across the face. He smiled creepily at hearing the strained grunt.

Angry, Dean rebounded after his paralytic shock of the breath-taking slap by twisting out of the man's arms, jumping up and ramming both feet into the side of the guy's right knee. If Ventura had been a stringy flimsy sort of man, the trick would have worked in disabling his knee cap. Unfortunately Ventura was strongly built and the force of a one-hundred and fifteen pound eleven-year-old hardly caused his knee to bend. Dean let out a worried gasp.

Laughing at the failed attempt, the stranger easily lifted the boy up and swung his body at the nearby wall, receiving a pained yelp from the kid, and then tossed him into the large bathroom mirror. Dean screamed at the pieces of glass biting into his skin, piercing into the small of his back as he fell onto the sink's tabletop.

"Ya like that boy," Ventura chortled, "Well how about this?" he picked him up again, dropping him so that Dean's head hit the edge of the counter.

Dean grunted painfully at the hit falling to the ground. His body trembled as he struggled to get up, but the impact of both crashes rattled his skeleton enough to where he felt nearly immobile. He could feel the sharp pinpricks of where the glass tore into his flesh and he fought hard to suppress his tears, the utter realization that the outcome of this situation would not be in his favor crashing over him like a tidal wave. The images of his brother tucked away inside the closet flashed. _Gotta protect Sammy_, was the only thought his head could register. Never was there a time where he wanted his Dad than this one. He silently prayed that at any moment his father will come storming in like the hero he knew him as and kick these guy's asses to the curb. _Please Dad, hurry._

The man smiled creepily bending down ready to continue more harsh treatment.

"Stop," a gruff voice called out. Ventura stopped to see his partner—slightly hunched over and grimacing in pain, carrying the crow bar—step into view. "Check below his left ear first. If he's the kid, then there should be a mole there."

The partner pulled Dean to his feet, wrapping an arm around his chest keeping him from going anywhere, pinching his cheeks with his other hand whilst jerking his head to the side.

Jeffthro leaned down and shakily shifted some of his hair around, searching for the supposed mark.

He brought his blood-shot blue eyes up to his partner's. "It's not him. It's gotta be the other one. Boss said there were two boys in this shithole."

"Right," Ventura peered down at the boy, "Where is he, kid?"

"Piss…off," Dean answered defiantly through his clenched lips.

"Oh yeah, we'll see about that," Ventura replied sadistically pulling out a tazor. Turning on the device, he stuck it into the child's side. The small bathroom was then filled with Dean's screams and harrowing convulsions. After a long second—which felt like eternity— the man laid off.

"Ready to talk now. Where is he?"

"Go…to Hell," Dean gasped, his strength weakening in the bully's arm.

"Wrong answer," Ventura snarled sticking the tazor back into his side.

After another long moment, Jeffthro lifted up a hand unable to handle the boy's screams and strangled gasps for air any longer. "We don't have time for this. Take care of it," he dropped the crow bar, shuffling away at hearing a rustling noise coming from the bedroom.

Obeying the order, the stranger stowed the device back into his pocket, bending down to retrieve the fallen crow bar. Establishing a good hold of it, he brought it down hard on the kid's head and body several times. The boy fell limply to the ground seemingly dead.

* * *

The levee of tears finally broke and made a steady stream down Sam's cheeks. The child was scared at having to stay inside the dark closet, panting heavily at the stifled air from being buried under a mountain of clothes. He soon became terrified at hearing the loud 'boom' of his dad's shotgun and the angry yells of the strangers. Burrowing his face into his teddy bear, Sam bit his lip to restrain himself from whimpering.

That soon became more difficult when he heard the desperate yells his brother made. At that moment, he really wanted his big brother to come back to him, because it was horrifying to face this all by his lonesome.

He sniffed rocking back and forth. "Dean."

Several more loud voices were heard along with loud pounding noises resembling someone beating a slab of meat with a mallet. Sam cried out loud accidentally at hearing Dean's anguished screams. His brother was in trouble. Sam scrambled out of the mound of heavy clothing, aspiring to come to his sibling's aid. He froze when the screams died down and the shuffling of feet could be heard.

A second later, the door swung open and Sam looked into the brazen eyes of that of the man standing hunched over before him.

"There ya are," he smiled as though he found buried gold.

"Nooo," Sam screeched jumping up and backing away. It had no effect as the man reached in and pulled him out by the top of his hair. Sam dropped his teddy, latching his hands around the burly man's gorilla-sized paws. He skidded along the floor screaming and hollering out for his brother.

"Eric, I got him," the man yelled still wincing.

The other stranger came in eagerly and easily picked the squirming boy up. Quickly they checked below his ear and found the mole.

"Alright let's go."

Sam continued to scream and squirm in the man's arms grabbing at anything he could get his little hands around. "DEAN. DEAN."

Ventura shifted his position until he was carrying the child under his arm on his side.

"Dean. No. Dean, please," Sam constantly called out.

They left out of the room passing by the bathroom. Sam latched onto the bathroom's rim, not daring to let go and he peered inside the room. What he saw made his heart jump up his throat. His brother lied prone on the floor sprawled-out with a pool of blood spreading around his head.

"NOOOO. DEAN," he screamed. The men pulled at his arms, smacking his fingers off the panels. The pain was too much and he let go, now squirming faster, horrified at the sight of his big brother. "DEAN!"

Having enough of the child's screams, Jeffthro turned around and clunked the back of Sam's head with the crow bar his partner gave to him, knocking the boy out cold. As soon as they arrived at the back of their black van, Ventura wrapped some twine around the boy's hands, slapping some duct tape over his mouth, and tossed him into the back, shutting the doors forcefully. Minutes later they were speeding off into the night.

**Note: I pray to God that the events in this chapter will never happen to a child, but bad things do happen. More than likely, I probably have turned some of you away due to the brutality of this, and that's okay. Sorry for the suspense and horror, but it is vital to the plot of this story. For those of you who do decide to stick around, stay tuned as the situation gets a little harrier coming up. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the delay folks. But my brain literally got fried sitting at a horse show last weekend and it got worse from there. So anywho, here's chapter 3. Time to find out what happens to Sam, beware it is a little disturbing (but no, there's no torture or rape involved…I'm not that sadistic! ...I don't think!) **

**And on another note…I am such a smuck (but you knew that anyway). Thanks to Moira4eku for pointing this out, Jethro Toll is a band, not a person as I once thought. So really what I meant (now that I've done my research) is that the first stranger looks like Ian Anderson from the band. You talk about 'whoops'! Guess that's what happens when you don't research before you post. Thanks Moira4eku!**

_Darkness._

_Pain._

_Nothing._

For a split second, that was all little Sammy could register. Nothing but darkness. Nothing but pain. Nothing but a feeling of weightlessness, floating in a subconscious world where nothing could be felt. Nothing could be touched, smelt, or even heard… then suddenly as if a cannon went off, a blaring roaring sound reached his little ears, followed closely by a persistent clinking noise resonating annoyingly somewhere nearby. The noises seemingly escalated beyond deafening forcing his mind to exit the dream-like world of bliss and comfort and face the cold hard reality of being kidnapped.

A small grunt issued out from behind the tape strapped over his mouth as his eyes slowly flittered. Throbbing at the top of his head and around his wrists reactively caused him to whimper some more. The more aware he became of his surroundings was the instant he realized the vehicle humming beneath him was still moving; his body rocking roughly along with it's movement.

Sam wavered in between his dream world and reality. He didn't want to wake up, not to the pain.

_Flash._

An image of his brother's worried face as he stowed the kid in the closet flashed before him

_Flash._

The sounds of Dean's screams and heavy pounding.

_Flash._

The sight of Dean lying broken and bloody on the bathroom floor.

Sam's eyes shot open. Horrified and broken sounds erupted from his throat, stifled by the gag. He rolled over, curling into a ball, whimpering incessantly when the utter dawning of his brother lying dead, gone from this world, leaving him alone and in the hands of dangerous men befell him. He wanted his Dad. He wanted his brother. Hell, he just wanted his freakin' teddy bear; anything to give him some form of consolation at that particular time.

An influx of images of his brother kept flashing before him in a long torrent, continually making him cry out louder.

The Ventura look-a-like glanced back behind the passenger seat. "Sounds like the little brat is awake," he grumbled hearing the child's cries.

"Well then shut him up," the crabby drone behind the wheel ordered.

"Hey. Shut up," Ventura shouted chucking an empty water bottle towards the back.

Sam let out a pained pule, his eyes watering fast and spilling down his cheeks when the bottle struck the side of his head and bounced off. He fell silent not wanting to upset the men anymore than he should.

Still wrapped up in his ball, Sam looked up at the back door windows, noticing the dark shadows from the spring trees passing by in one big blur. At first he was slightly contented to see a little bit of forestry; it had been awhile since he had seen one partially due to their father's rule of staying within doors.

His dimpled cheeks instantly died down when he heard the voices of the two men.

"Come on Marty, pull over. I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," the driver groused.

"Just one little stop," the passenger goaded, "Just five minutes."

"No, we have two more kids we gotta pick up in the next state. Boss wants us back pronto. You can wait a little while," the driver answered sternly.

"Dickhead. You're no fun."

"And you think our job is. My chest still feels like it's on fire from that little twerp. You sure you bashed him in pretty good?"

"As good as any."

"Good."

An angry sniffle worked past Sam's demeanor hearing the miscreant's converse about his big brother like that. The image of Dean lying dead flashed in his mind again and he could feel the icy grip of despair overcome him. Never before had he felt so completely and utterly alone, defenseless. He was just seven years old. How can he take care of himself? How could he get away from these men when he was bound and gagged? It seemed hopeless. His life was over.

"_Don't say that dummy."_

At hearing the familiar voice, Sam searched around the back part of the van frantically. Looking over at the opposite corner, he jerked in surprise at seeing Dean sitting Indian style staring at him vividly.

"DEAN," he cried through the tape.

"Shut up," Ventura hollered.

Sam ignored the brute gaping in shock at seeing his big brother. "I thought you were dead," he muffled loudly, wondering if Dean could understand him.

"I told ya I'd find you," Dean answered.

"But you're dead."

The boy in the corner shrugged. "It doesn't matter Sammy, if I'm alive or dead. I'm always gonna be there for ya, even up here," he tapped his head.

Then it made sense. The real Dean wasn't here, this was an apparition; a made up figment of his imagination. But Sam didn't care; he continued to stare widely, fearing this was the last time he'd get to see his brother.

Awful laughing from the front brought him out of his momentary reverie. Then the fear of his fate washed over him and he became scared. He had no idea where they were taking him, or even why they took him in the first place. That paralytic sense of defenselessness raised its ugly head once again causing Sam to tremble in his binds.

"Listen Sammy," Dean spoke up again.

Sam looked at him.

"You gotta fight."

Sam raised an eyebrow, not understanding what his imaginary brother was telling him.

"You gotta fight if you wanna live. Are you just gonna lie here and let them do whatever they want to you. I mean, Hell, Sammy, they might be aliens from planet X-F5 who want to pick at your brains and probe you," Dean shuddered making Sam smile through the tape. "…Or they might just want to take your lunch money? I don't know."

Sam continued to grin at his sibling, his eyes drying up quickly.

"But the point is Sammy you don't want to find out sooo..."

"But how can I fight them? I don't know how to fight yet, you wouldn't show me," Sam protested.

"Come on Sammy, I let you fight a couple times," Dean objected leaning forward, looking towards the front, "Okay, you see the one on the left, the one driving, he's still hurt pretty badly so he ain't gonna fight worth gorgonzola. The other one you gotta worry about. Take him out first if you can. I say go for his family jewels, gets him every time."

"But how?" Sam asked raising his tethered hands.

Dean bopped his head up and down, "Good point. Okay first off, take that tape off, it's bothering me. I can't understand your mumblish half of the time and that thing is not helping."

Sam immediately peeled off the sticky gag, biting his lip hard as not to cry out from the searing pains it caused. Once stashing away the remnant, he turned back to his brother.

"Okay now look around. See if you can find anything to cut those things off, that'll make things a heck of a lot easier."

Sam looked around, seeing nothing remotely useful in the back. He sat up, shuffling away from his spot. The floor was grimy and dusty, feeling icky under his forearms. Trying to remain as quiet as possible, Sam moved fast, keeping his eyes wide open, and his ears constantly alert on the bad guy's movements.

The more he looked, the more he came to realize that the van was no van; it was more like a slaughter house. Heavy equipment such as machetes, rope, chains all swung from the ceiling, a shotgun lying behind the driver seat, and other large equipment that resembled a modern clothing roller sat in the middle. Sam wanted to take his chance cutting the twine with one of the machetes, but doing so would alert the men of his attempted escape. That would be no good.

Turning around, Sam scooted back the way he came, still searching until his leg brushed against something loose. Peering down, he slid his leg to the side and caught sight of a nail.

Dean raised his eyebrows, "That'll work."

Nodding, Sam quickly set to work in picking and rubbing the tiny pinpoint against the rope. It was long and aggravating, but eventually the hard work paid off and the binds fell off his little hands. His fingertips were raw and bloody, but he kept a firm hold on the little nail. Now was the time to make his escape, if possible.

He glanced back at his brother. Dean gave him the patented Dean Winchester shit-eating grin that always made him feel special. "It's now or never Sammy. You're a Winchester, remember? Either you lay low and pray for an escape which you know won't happen or you go down swinging. I'll be here with you all the time."

"Ok big brother," Sam muttered turning forward. He took a deep breath and looked back to find his brother gone. Rising above the lonely feeling billowing in his gut, Sam stood up, heading towards the front.

"Good grief, how long is this fricken' road?" Ventura grumbled.

"I don't know. Are you sure we're going the right way?" his partner answered grumpily.

"I don't know. I didn't bring a map. Shouldn't there be signs?"

"Ugh, you're so stupid," they rounded a curve.

"Thanks you big oaf. Very much appreciated and next time you can do your own laundry."

"Yeah, well…ahhhhh," the man screamed as a nail was pierced through his eye. He bucked forward slamming into the driving wheel, the speeding van now swerving across the road.

"Marty!" Ventura cried out grabbing a hold of the wheel to sustain the vehicle.

Sam released his grip off the nail after gouging it into the driver's eyeball. He grabbed onto the seat once the van began to go out of control. Ventura turned and saw the kid just as the driver slammed his head back into the seat, clasping a hand over his eye.

Angry, Ventura yelled, "Take the wheel."

He got up from his seat and reached back. "Come here you brat."

Sam launched forward and bit down hard on the man's fingers causing the man to shriek in pain and jump back. Looking down, Sam saw the shotgun at his feet. Quickly he picked it up and pointed the barrel. Ventura jumped up again screaming out "I'm gonna kill you."

Instinctively, Sam pulled the trigger, a round of rock-salt flying out and hitting the bully square in the nads. Ventura flew back into his passenger seat crying out in misery. The driver fought hard to keep the van on the road, the shooting pain in his eye making it difficult to see the road.

Seeing this as his chance, Sam immediately rushed over to the sliding door. Luckily there was no child-lock on it as he easily pulled it open. The dark road raced past fast below and he hesitated. They were going too fast to jump out now. He might have to wait until they slowed down.

The beefy Ian look-a-like continued to swerve the vehicle. He saw a large sharp curve coming up fast. Pressing hard on the brakes, he turned the wheel hard in taking the turn.

Unable to grab onto anything once the vehicle took the sharp curve, Sam flew out, hitting the embankment hard. The van soon lost complete control a little ways up and fell over the sharp curve, sliding and rolling down a long gulley.

The momentum threw Sam's body forward, rolling down a little hill, head over heels. Sam cried out long and loud, hardly able to stop. Pain erupted everywhere in his hands, arms, and legs. A fence post soon loomed into view and Sam's body hit it hard and fast, his head cracking open, cascading his world into darkness.

-

It was well past midnight when John pulled his long time friend, the Impala, up the gravel driveway. Tired and worn out from the latest hunt, he was looking forward to some peace and quiet and some down-time with his boys. However, when he saw the lights still on in the house, he changed his mind about the peace and quiet as he might have to delegate out some punishments. He shook his head in irritation.

Slowly he exited his vehicle, striding up the small porch with his key out. Once at the door, he paused noticing the door was slightly cracked open. Instantly his instincts were on high alert, and he pulled out his .45 from behind his belt. Something was wrong. He knew his son Dean would never have left the door unlocked or even opened for that matter.

Quietly slipping into the house, he kept his gun out in front of him, staying close to the walls. He saw the livingroom in shambles and some of the kitchen furniture broken and left in piles. His first thought was the house must've been broken into, either robbed or attempted to be robbed.

The further John stepped into the house, the more he noticed the faint, but yet distinct coppery scent of blood permeating the air. It scared him a little, but he pressed on at a snail's pace, wanting desperately to call out to his sons, but his training keeping him mute in case the perpetrator was still lurking about.

The scent of blood became stronger the closer he stepped towards the boy's room. The house was dreadfully quiet and it didn't help his quivering nerves one bit. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, keeping him tensed.

The bathroom was the first door on his right he came to. He halted at the lining of the door with his back pressed against the wall. With his gun poised in front of him, he took a deep breath and stepped in front of the door, instantly becoming frozen at the sight.

His son. His baby. His own flesh and blood lying on the floor, pale, still, his head surrounded by a pool of blood. The air expunged from his lungs in one great gasp. He tried to take a breath, but it seemed as if all air had left the room. He stared paralyzed, fixed with horror, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing. His son dead. No. It can't be. No. NO!

"DEAN," John screamed coming to the boy's side. "Dean. No. Dean, wake up," he rolled his son over, lifting his head out of the crimson puddle. Dean's lips were blue and his skin was cool. A painful pang shot through John's heart, flowing rapidly throughout his chest. A lump formed in his throat and he fought hard to swallow it, his deep-seated fear coming true.

"Dean, come on," he shook him praying he'll get a response. Still the boy lay limp in his arms, "Dean. No." Shakily, he pressed two bloody fingers into the crook of the child's neck and waited. When he didn't feel anything at first, he maneuvered his fingers to different spots, trying to remain calm. If anything he was about to hyperventilate. Pressing harder into the pale skin, John searched.

He jerked in surprise when he felt one: a pulse, a slow and faint throb beneath his fingertips.

"Oh thank God," he gasped scooping the boy into his arms. Grabbing a towel from off the towel rack, he pressed it to the wound site on the child's head. He raced out of the bathroom and placed him on the couch, rapidly pulling off the couch's blanket and draping it over him.

"SAM," John called out desperately. The pervading fear of his children's fate grew in strength when he thought about his other son. Running to the bedroom, John caught sight of the closet door open and the clothes spilt.

"Sam?"

He looked inside the closet and saw the teddy bear dropped on the floor. Instantly another pang shot through his heart. Fighting back the tears, he raced over to the bed and looked under. "Sammy?"

He ran over to the other bed and peered under. "Sammy, baby. Please."

When his youngest child did not answer, he ran out of the room and searched helter-skelter all over the small house. After finishing looking in his bedroom and finding no sign of his son, John gasped for breath, leaning over and placing his hands on his knees.

Taking several long and deep breaths, he said to himself in a litany, "Okay calm down. Calm down. Calm down and think. Oh my God."

He looked up and saw his eldest on the couch. Biting his lip, not wanting to leave until he knew if Sam was alright, he fled over to the couch and picked his baby up. With the way Dean looked and the faintness of his pulse, Dean wasn't going to be able to hold on any longer. Jumping down from the porch, John ran over to the car and stowed his son in the passenger seat, keeping the towel wrapped tightly around the head wound. Hopping into the driver's seat, he sped off towards the closest hospital as fast as his trusty vehicle could fly.

Fifteen minutes later, he skidded to a halt in front of the emergency. Scooping up his eleven year old one last time, he raced inside screaming for help.

**Again sorry for the wait. Now that Dean's been found and taken to the hospital, let's see if he has survived, plus we gotta find out what happens to Sammy, now that he's out of the bad guys' clutches. Don't worry, we'll see them again. Stay tuned as Sam's situation gets a little interesting. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey Guys, Oh my God. I am so sorry for the delay. Had a month of Hell, literally. Anyway back to the story. Okay now that the main horror is over, the story gets a little lighter from this point on, but with some angst...okay, a lot of angst! Remember this is a fiction, and this is me we're talking about. My fics will get really dark in the beginning, but it always turns out to be bearable…have no fear.**

**And on another note, now don't make fun of me, but there is a new character's name in here that I just wanted to use _so_ bad. You'll see what I mean.**

An unnerving silence settled in the main waiting room of the Cottonsmill Medical General. Decorated in beige-colored walls, vinyl-cushioned chairs, multicolored flowers in ceramic pots, and large laminated posters advertising health care, the room had a rather homely fitting. But no matter how homely or comforting it might appeal, it could do nothing for the occupant sitting on the floor with the propensity for twisting his phone anxiously in his hands every few seconds.

It had been several hours since John arrived cradling his badly injured son. Several hours it had been since the emergency staff whisked him away and left him reeling in shock. Several hours since he was kindly escorted to the 'Home and Garden' waiting room to begin the agonizing wait for news. Anxiety ridden and worried over his sons, John sat against the hardened chair shaking, waiting anxiously for his fellow hunter to call back.

Already having gone back to the house and looked for his son in the house again and then searching in the surrounding cornfields, John concluded that his baby was indeed missing and decided to rush back to the hospital. There he decided to call his longtime friend Caleb. The hunter after hearing the dope on the Winchester kids completed a mighty U-turn in the state of Idaho and began to head towards California at lightning speed. John felt the burden lift a fraction off his shoulders knowing he wouldn't be in this alone.

The feeling helped considerably, especially when the cops came in awhile later to ask him a few questions no doubt to the docs and nurses making a claim. The authorities soon left after he had relayed to them that he was a single dad working late and he came home to find his house broken into and his son beaten nearly to death. He had to fight hard against the urge of reporting the disappearance of his youngest, but with his mysterious occupation and the possibility that this might not be a humane act, he decided to remain mute. Besides, sometimes acquiring help through the legal system can be a real mess and can complicate things more than was necessary.

Since then John felt he couldn't do anything else but wait. So he waited…and waited.

It was the worst experience he ever had to endure. Worse than the attrition runs at Vietnam.

Suddenly the maddening silence was broken by the sound of ringing. Pressing the button hastily off his large cell phone, John answered, "Hello?"

"John?" a mellow voice answered he only knew to be Caleb's.

"Caleb. Thank God! Where are you?"

"I'm nearly there, about an hour out. Any news on how Dean's doing?" the hunter asked.

John sighed deeply placing his forehead into the palm of his hand. "No, nothing as of yet," he replied despondently.

"Damn," Caleb huffed in disappointment. "Just hang in there Johnny. Have you found out anything else? Like what exactly happened?"

"No."

"Okay, that's fine. I guess we won't know exactly what happened at least until Dean wakes up."

"If…if he wakes up," John responded pitifully, on the verge of tears.

"John, don't say that."

"Caleb, you didn't see him," he sobbed, "He…" he trailed off, his voice choking at the image of finding his son lying broken and bloody. He hadn't realized his mind had wandered off until the sound of Caleb's loud muddled voice over the receiver brought him back to reality.

"John. John, listen to me. You gotta listen to me," Caleb began, "You've got to pull yourself together for right now. You're not in this alone. Dean _will_ wake up and we _will_ find Sammy. You have to tell yourself that."

"But I already searched the house twice, Caleb. I went back and searched everywhere. Sammy's not there. He's gone. He's gone and I…I don't know what to do. I don't know where to start!"

"Okay. Okay. Just take it easy," Caleb tried to reassure.

"Take it easy?" John's eyes widened. A fiery pang of anger suddenly struck a chord and he found himself yelling, "Hell no I'm not just gonna take it easy. My baby is missing and my eldest is fighting for his life. Don't tell me to take it easy, I can't! I won't!"

"Alright, alright. My mistake. Calm down," Caleb quickly apologized, falling mute to allow the distraught father a few minutes to collect himself. "Just hang tight. Like I said, I'm nearly there and we can both look for Sam. I already called Bobby and Jim. Bobby says he's on his way too and Jim's started on research."

John perked up. "Why? Why's Jim on research?"

"Well, this is rather fishy, isn't it? If someone or something took Sam—"

"I don't know if they did. I don't know what's happened," John said sharply.

"Okay, but still we have to assume this was a kidnapping. Jim is on it to see if something like this has happened elsewhere. Just to make sure this is not something we normally deal with. You know him, if there's a lead, he'll find it. And maybe…" he trailed off.

"Maybe what?"

"I don't know," Caleb sighed nervously, obviously regretting speaking ahead, "Forget it."

"Caleb!" John warned.

"Maybe…I don't want to say this John, but maybe this has something to do with the night Mary was killed."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because think about it. You told me you found her on the ceiling of your son's room, Sam's room. Something obviously did that and you don't know what yet. And it's all because of Sam—"

"It wasn't all because of Sam," John interrupted defensively, "Mary's death was not Sammy's fault—"

"That's not what I'm saying. Whatever it was that killed your wife was in your son's nursery for a particular reason. We just need to make sure that whatever's happening right now is not because of that reason."

John went quiet. He hadn't thought of that night for a long time and it disturbed him a little that Caleb had brought up a valid point. Something did kill his wife, he was certain of that. And now possibly that whatever it was could have been after Sam all along…he wanted to vomit.

"John? John, you there?" Caleb called out concerned.

"Yeah I'm here," John answered tentatively, swallowing down a huge lump that now sprouted in his throat, "Why's Bobby's coming?"

"Because if it is something nasty that we're dealing with, he'll be able to sniff it out and let us know," Caleb informed.

"Is that so?"

"Take no offense Johnny-boy, you're good, but you still need some practice. Anyway you're not exactly in the right mind-set right now to search for clues. So we're on our way to help. We'll find Sam. Have faith brother."

John let out another long sigh, "Yeah I guess you're right. Thanks Caleb."

At that moment, a doctor entered the room.

"Okay, I gotta go Caleb. The doctor's here," John said before pressing the end button and stowing the phone into his back pocket. He stood up and faced the man with a flushed face and bloodshot eyes. The doctor, a balding middle-aged dumpy sort of man eyed John with astonishing icy blue eyes and an emotionless expression he couldn't read. He seemed to be of average height, but compared to John's tall stature, the man would have been considered a hobbit. John read _Ernest Fester, M.D._ off the gold plated nametag on the man's white lab-coat.

"Mr. Winchester?" the man called out in a smooth tone, "You came in here with your son

Dean, correct?"

"Yes. How is he?"

"He's stable for right now," the doc answered automatically.

John breathed, thanking whoever was watching that his son survived. "How bad? What are his chances?"

"To be honest, I can't be certain of anything at this time. He sustained multiple injuries mostly to his cranial cavity and his back. The most severe was the head injury," Dr. Fester breathed, "There was a three centimeter long crack along his left temporal. We went ahead and fixed it with a plate, but we won't know the severity of the damage until he regains consciousness."

"So there's a good chance he will wake up?"

The doctor looked away nervously.

"Doc, please?" John pleaded desperately.

"It will be a long while. Mr. Winchester, we had no choice but to put your son into a medically induced coma. His injuries were too severe and me and a few colleagues agreed that this was the best option."

"A coma?" John could feel his crystalline heart began to chip away.

"Yes," the doc nodded, "But in time, give or take a week or so, we'll check his condition and see if he's stable enough to bring him out of it."

"What are his other injuries?" John asked softly, still numb about hearing his son's current condition.

The doctor obliged to his request by opening a manila folder he held in his grasp. "They were not as severe as the head wound, but he has several contusions to his lower back, some of which we want to keep a close eye on since they were real close to the spinal cord. There was a break in his right scapula, but that should have no problem fully healing, and there was another break on the posterior side of his right femur. Some of the tissue there was also heavily bruised and damaged and it will take a considerable amount of time to heal, at this point I am unsure. Um, I think there was—"

"Okay. Okay, that's enough," John cut in, hardly able to listen anymore. He could feel his stoic wall slowly begin to weaken. "Enough. What else is being done?"

Dr. Fester finally revealed that he wasn't a heartless bastard by giving the man before him a sympathetic look. "Why don't I let you see him?" he offered, "I think it will be good for you and quite possibly your son. We're doing everything we can for him."

"Yea," John squeaked, "That's…alright."

Dr. Fester led him out of the room and down a long corridor. Soon after meandering down several hallways and traveling up the elevator shaft, the doc stopped him in front of a door in the P-ICU. John's heart hammered painfully against his chest, an overwhelming sense of dread taking over. He took several deep breaths before finally striking up the courage and entered the room.

His heart raced faster and he felt a knot form in his stomach at the sight of his son. Dean laid still and pale against the bedspread just as the last time he saw him, only he was cleaned up and a heavy bandage was wrapped around his head. A small tube was inserted through his mouth and his entire body was covered in wires hooked to many machines. John approached the bed slowly. His eyes watered seeing how peaceful his son looked. If he hadn't known better, he would have said Dean was sleeping.

"H-hey Dean," his voice shook. He took up his child's hand.

"I'll come back later to assess him," Dr. Fester announced from the door, "You can stay in here for as long as you like."

John nodded in understanding unable to steer his eyes away from the still creature just as the doc turned to leave. The father then saw this as his opportunity to be closer to his son and so he laid on the bed next to him, mindful of the devices and machine wires keeping his son alive.

Keeping an arm across the small chest, John closed his eyes listening to the heart-monitors constant beeping. He hated that a machine, a mechanical device supplied by batteries was keeping his son alive. He hated that his once so energetic son was lying here still as a doornail. And he also hated the fact his son's hand was so cool and flaccid.

He always knew that his greatest weakness was his children, but he never realized how weak that part of the chain was. It was unsettling to see how fast that chain unraveled once broken. And now he felt powerless; terrified, defenseless. How could he have let this happen? How could he have let something so awful happen to his children? What would Mary think? What would his kids think of him now if he can't somehow fix this?

"Hey son?" he spoke after awhile, trying real hard to keep his cool. So he thought it would be a good idea to talk to his boy, to let him know he's not alone and to keep fighting.

"It's me dad. I'm here now and I'm not leaving you ever again..." he paused feeling the raw emotion building in his throat. Clearing his throat, he said, "I am so sorry this had to happen. I'm so sorry I wasn't there. God, please don't hate me Dean. Please come back to me. Hang in there and stay strong boy. Please…"

He took one last look at the pale face and placed a gentle kiss on the boy's cheek. "It's okay now, Daddy's here."

Closing his eyes once again, he prayed he'll wake up and this nightmare will be over. Then he broke down and for the first time in a long time, since his wife's death, he broke. The formidable John Winchester let his wall of emotion crumble and he cried.

-

Early one morning before the sun peaked over the land and the morning mist began to brew, a black Ford pick-up truck drove down the long windy road. Many still slumbering critters awoke by the noisy hum of the motor as it passed, many eyes gleaming from the headlights. Inside the huge truck was a couple wondering if they had taken the right road.

"Honey, are you sure we're on the right road?" the young woman asked.

"For the thousandth time, yes! My aunt said fourteen, and we're on fourteen," her usually delectable husband answered fretfully.

"Yes she did Jared, and she also said to be on it for at least fifteen minutes," his wife gave him a sardonic glare, "It's been forty-five."

"Hannah, I get what you're saying and before you ask to pull over and ask for directions," he cut his wife off as her lips were puckered ready to speak, "there is no one around. I'm sure we'll find her new house soon."

"Yes, according to my directionally challenged husband who was in the Marines I might add."

"Yeah I sorta skipped out on that part in the training," Jared shrugged.

"I can tell."

"Yeah, well, seeing how we're always late, we might as well make ourselves fashionably late."

"Fashionably late? How about fashionably early? Only you would want to find your aunt's house at five in the morning."

"Sorry can't help it. I'm an early bird," Jared grinned.

"Yeah no kidding. But hey as long as I have my half-café double vanilla latte and you do the driving, I'm good," Hannah took a long sip from her thirty-two ounce coffee cup.

Jared looked over at his wife, "You know Aunt Millie is preparing breakfast for us and there will be coffee?"

"Oh goooddd, that way I won't be extra cranky. Plus I will be able to stay awake during her narratives about your Uncle Ted's fishing exploits."

Jared laughed. His newlywed wife, though sarcastic and open-minded…and sometimes mouthy, always had the tendency to make him laugh. It was the many qualities about her that attracted him. Not only her golden-brown curls, voluptuous lips, bright chocolate eyes, and not-to-mention sexy curves, but she was also wickedly smart, righteous, and naturally daring—so much it had him wondering some days if she had any ounce of sanity.

That was evident the first day he met her at a convenience store in their small town and a crotchety old woman scolded him, demanding for a discount she believed she deserved because she walked all the way to the back of the small store and back. Of course being a store-clerk, he had his fair share of ignoramus people speaking condescendingly to him as if all convenience store clerks were the filth you wiped off your shoe. When Hannah more or less saved him from the Wicked Witch of the West that day, it was the first time someone ever stood up for him. Labeled as caring and guileless, the young woman woke something up in him, and he knew he found his future wife.

He, on the other hand, there wasn't much to him. Living mostly indigently all his life, barely scraping by through high school and finally finding a steady job as that store-clerk, he hadn't had many goals…until he met Hannah. She was finishing up her undergrad and was planning on continuing to work on her masters for psychology. He had no unearthly idea of what she saw in him…it couldn't have been his tall lanky frame—well now it's has this uniquely suave built to it, not that he's complaining—or his spunky attitude, or genuinely kind personality. Most girls don't like that in men…so one day he mustered the courage to ask. To which she replied, "I just have a strange affinity for saving damsels in distress and you need all the help you can get."

And he never asked her again.

But soon after they became an inseparable item, he knew that one day he would eventually propose. And then there was that little thing of a thing of another thing about taxes and mortgages, and, oh yeah, providing a decent living…there was only so much love and his faithful job as a store-clerk can handle. So Jared realized he had to do better if one day he would provide for his beautiful fiancée like it generally was inscripted into the male genetic genome. That's when he decided to join the Marines.

Hannah hadn't taken it as well as he had hoped. But she soon came around understanding his intentions and encouraged him to be all that could be. Her phone calls of support were mainly what got him through boot camp. Besides it wasn't that he didn't want to join the military, he had wanted to for the longest time since he saw 'Officer and a Gentlemen'…it was that matter of leaving her behind. Of all the military disciplines, he had no idea why he chose the Marine core…it probably looked good at the time, he supposed.

It was maybe approximately three years he was in service before he was given an honorary discharge due to a massive leg injury from a 'so-called' training accident. It left his left leg permanently damaged and labeled him as handicapped. But it didn't come without benefits. That's what Hannah always told him whenever he became frustrated through physical therapy and the daunting realization he was a crippled. But he wasn't entirely crestfallen over it, one: it brought him home to Hannah, and two: he could still drive his pick-up truck—otherwise he would've fallen into depression by now.

Now both twenty-seven years of age, living in a nice house with Hannah working as an assistant professor at a local community college and he as a 'moderately self-proclaimed mechanical inventor of a sort', they were happy. He felt like they could handle any obstacle thrown their way and mow it down…

But…they have to find Aunt Millie's house first. Jared was hoping it would be soon, because just the thought of her melted cheese-spreads and croissant sandwiches made his mouth water.

"Oh come on Hannah, sometimes you have to admit they can be funny," he turned his green eyes to her, bowing his head down submissively when he received the ominous glare.

"Oh yeah, two bass fish flying over the boat is great," she shook her head, "Damn. Now if they had smacked your cousin upside the head—yeah, now that would be hilarious."

Jared giggled running a hand over his short-cropped dark hair. He had to admit the image of his arrogant 'don't know when to shut up' cousin Billie get smacked in the face by fishtails was a nice image indeed. He continued to drive.

"Yeah, well, Aunt Millie will make sure this trip is worth it," he came around a curve, "she always…holy Christ!" he screamed out loud when a child loomed in view in front of the speeding vehicle. Slamming on the brakes and yanking the wheel harshly to the left, the Ford went into a spin. Hannah threw her hands up to the ceiling hanging onto dear life, whilst Jared worked the wheel in trying to stabilize the truck.

Eventually the truck swerved to a stop in the middle of the road. Breathless, both occupants slowly exchanged desperate looks and slowly peered out the back window.

"Jesus Christ Jared, that's a child," Hannah said whipping off her seat-belt and rushing out of the car.

"Hannah, no! Hannah!" Jared called struggling to unfasten his safety belt.

Hannah hurriedly and cautiously approached the child whose back was turned from her limping steadily in the opposite direction. The back part of the child's shirt was coated in blood along with long tendrils running down his or her pj bottoms.

"Hello?" she called.

The child didn't respond.

"Hello? Are you okay?" she tried again.

"Hannah, wait up," Jared hollered hopping down from the truck and limping as fast as he could.

"Hang on Jared!"

She quickened her pace until she came around in front of the child, noticing it was a little boy. The boy had a dazed look about him, completely oblivious to his surroundings or anybody, and kept mumbling over and over again "bad men…Dean."

"Hey," Hannah knelt down in front of him, placing a hand on the little shoulder stopping the child from moving forward. He had blood trickling down the sides of his face and nose, scrapes all along his cheeks and arms. His left arm appeared at an odd angle. "Can you hear me, sweetie? Hello?" she asked softly.

When the child didn't respond but kept muttering, she looked up, "Jared, get over here."

Suddenly the child's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell unconscious into Hannah's arms.

"Jared HURRY!"

**Yay, Sammy's been found. I didn't want to leave you in too much suspense. And I told ya about the new character. And yes, he does sorta look like the real thing, only with shorter hair. I don't know why I decided to do that, but when I thought of his character, I could only see Jared. So I was like… hmmm, why not? Okay, you can make fun of me if you want...but not too much **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys, thanks so much for the support. And now since my other fic is over, I will be committing to this fic full time. So you know, hopefully there will be faster updates...but don't hold me to it. As for this chapter, you can relax, it's really light…or as light as this story will get. *wink***

It was a couple days later when Sam woke up confused. Though reluctant in deserting the sweet oblivion, he opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the bright sunlight glaring down on top of him. Emitting out a small whimper, he partially raised his left hand to shield against the light. A second later, he heard a noise and the glare dulled down. Feeling safe to open his eyes again, Sam repeated the action noticing that everything was blurry, fuzzy, with no real defining shape. It was odd like he was looking through a dirty window pane.

Feeling encased in a fluffy sort of cocoon, Sam didn't want to move. He didn't want to speak. He just wanted to lie there and continue basking in the warm comfort. But the further he drifted into consciousness, the more aware he became of the stiff achiness his body exhibited. There was a sort of biting edge tingling in his hands, his head, his left arm…ah hell, everywhere. It was as though there was a wave of pain ready to burst forth and attack. And it only made him want to say 'screw this' and go back to sleep.

Only he couldn't.

There was something else too besides the biting pain. Something that only increased his befuddlement. He felt it. On his right hand. Like something was holding onto it. The interworkings of his mind could only work so fast and at that moment he couldn't comprehend anything. He didn't know where he was or what was happening to him. The sense of naivety overwhelmed him and before he knew it, he tried to sit up.

His fuzzy eyesight still a hindrance, he slumped to the right, his small body quivering with exhaustion. Something heavy and itchy adorned the top of his head causing it to slowly dip downwards. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, the noise drowning out all other sound. His stomach felt horrible like hundreds of worms wriggling in his gut causing him to gag. He wanted to move. He wanted to cry out. He wanted to do something, to get away. He had to get away from the shock of it all…

Until he felt a hand move onto his chest and heard a soothing 'Shhh' over the thudding in his ears. Curious, Sam moved with the hand gliding back to a lying position, panting heavily.

"Breath sweetie. Nice and slow," he heard a soft voice say.

Following the voices' directions, he slowly calmed down taking in deep breaths. Though he noticed he didn't have to work as hard as something in his nose was completing the task for him. He blinked several times waiting for the blurry edges of his vision to dissipate. One of his eyes appeared blood-shot, after several blood-vessels broke, and in that particular eye, it was real difficult to see. But once they faded, that was when he noticed a pretty lady sitting in front of him. She gave him a big pearly-white smile that made his insides go all fuzzy. Her milk chocolate eyes twinkled and he felt like he could relax.

"Hey there sleepyhead—you're awake," she said rubbing his chest in a pacifying manner.

Sam didn't respond. He didn't know how to. Seeing the lady helped his agitation a bit, but it didn't help to know where he was at or who he was with. Instantly feeling like a small bug trapped in an oversized lamp, he became paranoid, retreating further into…

He thought more as to what he was lying on and given the soft marshmallow feel under his head and the warm softness beneath his body, he could only guess he was in a bed.

Swiveling his eyes back and forth, he searched around what appeared to be a room. Looking over into the far corner by a window, he saw a tall studly man dressed in a navy-white stripped shirt and jeans standing vigilantly by the blinds. Glancing away from the stranger, he tried to make out his other surroundings, becoming all the more confused.

Apparently the girl caught on to his bemused expression and so informed him of his current location. "You're in a hospital," her smile turned into a smirk, "You know, the place where doctors give you lollipops, and on Fridays free ice cream?"

Feeling incredibly shy, Sam stayed quiet. He continued to stare at the lady, curious as to who she was. Something tightened on his right hand and he peered down to see it was the woman's hand holding it, noticing a big white cast enveloped his other arm. _Ah!_ _No wonder it was too heavy to lift it._

"You went through quite a blunder there, don' cha' think?" the woman asked, "What's your name, sweetie?"

His fingers trembled violently and he cast a nervous look before bowing his head to the side. He was unsure as to whether or not he should talk. A stern voice in the back of his head commanded that he not. But he wanted to…gah, everything seemed so muddled now.

Honing in on the distress, Hannah decided to introduce herself so that she won't seem like a total stranger. "Well, I'm Hannah and this big lout you see here," she jerked with her thumb, "is my husband, Jared."

The man waved also giving off a handsome smile.

"We found you in the middle of the road and since you looked like you had a couple of boo-boos, we decided to take you here," Hannah said.

Sam's eyebrows furrowed. He didn't remember being out in any road. In fact, he didn't remember much of anything as to how he managed ending up in the hospital. That nasty sense of fear that never failed to show up surfaced once again. Sam slowly let go of Hannah's hand and curled stiffly into a ball onto his side, eying the couple warily.

The door opened and all three heads turned to see a tall handsome doctor in a polka-dotted lab coat enter with his head down reading off a folder.

From the bedspread, Hannah donned a face as though she recognized the guy. "Chris?"

The guy jerked up in alarm at hearing the surname, looking at the two in surprise. "Hannah? Jared?"

"Big Mouth!" Hannah jumped up, and barreled into her longtime friend, giving him a bear-like hug, practically squandering the life out of him.

The young doctor gulped greedily for air once she had released him. "G-good…to…see…you've still…got it," he struggled to say.

"You know me, if ya haven't nearly died of oxygen deprivation or a crushed chest, then I haven't hugged you good enough," Hannah guffawed.

"How's it hanging Rod Stewart?" Jared asked punching the guy's arm amiably.

"Good. Just great," Chris rubbed his bruising arm. "Still good to see you still have that steel fist. Has it come in handy yet manhandling the rest of the cavemen?"

"No," Jared gently grabbed the back part of the doc's lustrous dark hair with one hand, raising his fist with the other, "but let me try it out and let you know."

Sam watched the interaction between the three friends with fascination. Though it somewhat made him feel left out, it softened him up a bit to see that the people were nice and cool. Subconsciously wanting to scratch his head as it was one of his nervous habits, he snaked a hand up, but instead of tugging at unruly curls, his fingers ran across a lot of firm gauze…which didn't help him in the slightest. So he settled with biting the tip of his left hand's thumb, watching the strangers interact.

"Okay. Okay," Chris laughed pulling away from the tall hunk, "You guys are the two Samaritans that brought this youngster in?"

"Yep."

"Oh, why does that not surprise me?"

"You tell me, hoss," Hannah replied sarcastically, "I didn't know you worked at this hospital."

"Yea, I transferred out about a year and a half ago."

"Oh, you didn't tell me that."

"Yeah well…it's been awhile since we talked since…what was it, the graduate forum?"

Hannah was about to reply when her husband cleared his throat. Jared nodded at the anxious little boy when he caught their attention.

The doctor turned and looked at Sam with a big goofy grin, "Ah yes. And how's our little road-warrior doing today?"

Sam curled into himself tighter when the man neared.

"He just woke up a few minutes ago before you came in. He hasn't said anything though. Can't say I blame him," Jared answered limping over to the other side of the bed and taking a seat in the white plastic chair there.

"Oh, well," Chris sat on the bed, taking out his penlight. "Hey there little buddy. Can you look straight ahead for me, please?"

But the little boy cast his eyes down, afraid of the man sitting next to him. Totally understanding the child's nervousness, the doctor backed off producing a playful smirk. "Psst. Hey. Watch this!"

Sam looked on as the man still facing him shined his penlight on Hannah. He wiggled the device causing the light to whip all over his friend's body, up her leg, and across her face. But the funny part was that she was completely oblivious as to what he was up to. Sam smiled when Chris began making zig-zag patterns across her forehead.

"Chrriiisss," Hannah drawled out in a warning tone.

The doc whipped the light back until it shone like a beacon on her nose causing her to go cross-eyed. Both the doc and Sam chuckled loudly, even Jared let out a snort which he quickly silenced when his wife gave him 'the look'. Feigning a cough, he apologized with "Sorry hun."

Chris hopped off the bed after completing the procedure, making sure there was no concussion or any other side head-trauma. Hannah resumed his place gently stroking Sam's thigh.

"Well as for our patient," Chris spoke jotting down notes in his folder, "Hmmm, no zombie-ness."

Another smile lit up on Sam's face when the man imitated a zombie impression. Still quiet, he took up Hannah's hand and curled it into his chest.

Hannah turned to Chris, mesmerized at how the child warmed up so quickly. "How'd you do it?"

Chris shrugged. "Eh, trick of the trade, I guess. You have to know how to work with kids."

"Oh yeah like you know how?"

"Hey, it takes one to know one."

"Awww, good for you Big Mouth, you just admitted you were a kid," Hannah retorted.

Chris gave a displeased expression when he realized he just walked into that one. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Sure I do. Now would _you_ like a lollipop too?"

The man adopted a sinister glare. The group wasn't quite sure what to make of it until his expression morphed into a 'happy-go-lucky' look, as if the man flipped his happy switch. "So then, does this youngin' have a name?"

Again Sam stayed quiet when all three faces stared down at him.

Dr. Chris cocked his head to the side, conjuring a mischievous grin. "Well, if we don't have a name, then we're just going to have to guess. Is it Max? Finding you on the road? I figured it'd have to be something cooky like Max, like y'know Mad Max Thunderdome?"

The child crunched up his face shaking his head.

"No? Okay…uh…Hmmm, what about Dillon or Mark?"

Sam made another gross face.

Chris smiled mightily speaking now in a Jamaican accent, his soft baby blue eyes gleaming. "Yah man, I got it. Jahovah Belbaba? JB for short."

The couple glanced at one another silently giggling when they saw that Sam was now gazing at the doc as if he had gone cuckoo for cocoa puffs.

The doctor laughed. "No? Can't say I blame ya on that one, even if it _was_ your real name. Okay, uh, ooh," Chris continued placing a finger on his olive-tanned chin, "How about Jeremy Spritzer Houser? I like that. That's sounds good and sophisticated."

Sam shook his head again, smiling at the man's quirkiness, then he let out a tiny, "Sam."

Suddenly all three stopped dead. It was like someone had set down a million bucks in front of their eyes as they all looked completely astonished…or amazed that the youngster had finally spoke.

Carefully, Chris asked wiggling a finger in his ear, "What was it again? The mice in my ears are making too much racket!"

"S-ssssam," the little boy choked, his voice raspy from disuse.

Happy, Chris leaned forward holding out a clean hand. "Nice to meet cha' there Sammy. Mind if I call ya Sammy?"

Without hesitancy, Sam blurted, "No."

Still open-mouthed, the couple continued to stare at the child. An uncomfortable silence fell between them…that is until the seemingly pill-happy doctor leapt up with his hands in the air, preening over his achievement. "Ah ha, I did it. Yes I am the master. See I got him to say the most magnificent word there is…'No'."

"Oh you're so proud of yourself, are you?" Hannah teased.

"That I am. Cool, now that we have established this grand little boy is Sam," he gestured to the boy indicating if that was correct. Little Sam nodded. "Alright Sam, m'boy. Welcome to Ireton. It's a small lonely town that you'll never get to see on a map, but it's there I tell ya. Just somewhere in upstate California. I'm Dr. Chris by the way. But everyone else likes to refer to me as God."

"Yeah God-awful," Hannah muttered. "Hey God, why don't you tell him your last name?"

He scowled. "Thou shall not speak to me in that way, heathen," he turned to Sam, "I don't tell many people what my last name is because, frankly, you really don't want to know," he put a hand on the side of his mouth, "It rhymes with as—"

"Chris!" Hannah shrieked, "Not in front of the kid."

Sam giggled some more.

"If you really want to know, his last name is actually a kind of fish, hence the Big Mouth," Hannah enlightened giving her friend a critical glare.

Chris dismissed it by stepping closer to the bed. "Can you guess what it is?"

"Psst," Hannah whispered, "It's on his coat." Sam immediately looked and saw in curly letters next to a large yellow dot the name, "Bass."

"Hamster!"

"Hey you don't get to call me that again…ever," she pointed her index finger sharply, "That was back in high school."

Chris raised his hands in mock-surrender, "Hey it's not my fault you had bushy hair and buck teeth, flapping your gums while gawking at the slim-jims with breezy shorts while running on the cross-country team." He shied away when the woman emitted a low growl. "Okay, okay. Fine. Fine. Fine. I'll quit."

Hannah gave a curt nod of approval before turning her back.

"Just make sure you clean your cage and keep your running wheel nice and oiled when you get home," the doctor quipped.

"Ow," he interposed when she leapt up with lightning speed and smacked him upside the head.

Sam let out a big laugh, hardly able to stop…in turn causing the others to join in creating one big snickering session.

A few minutes later, one of the machines next to the bed gave a beep and a little plunger descended, injecting a viscous transparent liquid into the port. Sam soon felt the edges of the pain medicine spread throughout his body, blanketing him, so much he didn't feel a thing. He had to wiggle his toes just so he knew they were there. His eyes drooped feeling incredibly tired.

"So Sam?" Chris called out jerking him out of his daze. "Can you tell us your last name? I swear it can be our little secret."

The half-smile on his face suddenly faltered and he instantly looked confused. His mouth was opened and ready to speak, only nothing came out. It ran blank. He knew his last name. Or that is…he was sure he knew it. It was there in the back of his mind. He had to know it. It was on the tip of his tongue. "We...Win...Wa...uh, I don't know."

That took everyone by surprise.

"You don't know?"

Sam tried again, spilling over the many syllables in his head, but none would make sense or even seemed remotely familiar. Tears welled up in his eyes the harder he tried to conjure up the word. But then the more he dwelled on the matter, something else struck him. He couldn't remember anything. Not his family. Not his friends. No one. Not even who he was.

Suddenly fearful, he gazed up at the group shaking his head. The friendly doctor donned a grave look and the high-spirited mood came crashing to the ground.

"I don't know. I don't remember," Sam started to whimper.

"Hey it's okay," Hannah gathered him into an embrace. "It's okay," she offered to him soothingly.

Chris stepped back turning to Jared, "I was afraid of this."

"Sam?" Hannah began to ask when the child's whimpers died down to small sniffles, "We know your first name now, which is good. But we need to find your parents. Can you remember them at all?"

Sam grasped her bicep harder; his mind flying wild in trying to regain some sense of familiarity. But when all but a blank and hollow darkness took place in his head, he shook his head wailing louder in her shoulder.

Jared's wife cradled him closer. "Shhh, it's alright. But one more thing and I'll stop and go get you that lollipop, I swear. Do you know who Dean is?"

"Dean?"

"Yes honey, Dean. You kept saying his name when we found you."

Sam thought long and hard, but all that remained in his dark acumen was a blur and several shouts. He shook his head again.

"No. Um, okay. It's okay. Shhh. It's okay if you don't remember."

"Am I in trouble?" the little boy squeaked, his bottom lip trembling.

Hannah gasped, clearly flabbergasted by the apprehensive question. "No! No sweetie.

Your memory is just taking a nap, that's all. It'll wake up soon and you'll remember everything. It'll come back I promise."

Jared approached on the other side taking a seat on the bedspread. Running a hand through the boys' hair, he gave an 'a-ok' gesture, signaling to him that his wife meant what she said. However, it did nothing for the distraught child and he continued to cry in the woman's shoulder.

Several minutes had gone by. Hannah continued to cling onto him, whispering small reassurances and lullabies—or tid bits of whatever she could remember as a child— until the pain medication did it's job and Sam fell into a deep slumber. Nodding to her husband to help, they both gently laid the child down. Jared pulled his blanket up over his shoulders, while Chris came behind and checked the monitors.

Motioning to the couple to meet him outside, Chris walked out, halting just outside the threshold. "Um, so far as to what I can tell you is that we're going to be monitoring him very closely. I don't know how the little guy sustained it all cuz overall the kid's pretty tore up. We noticed he has a couple bruised ribs, several contusions and abrasions, plus the head trauma."

"Um, he…his, uh, arm was at an angle," Jared mentioned.

Chris nodded, "Yeah that's broken too. Part of the ulna split and the distal end of his radius is shattered. The surgeon will be taking a look at it soon, see if we can fix it. So in the meantime, let's just say we're going to try and keep him as comfortable as possible. You sure you have no idea what happened to him?"

"Yeah. Like it is in our report, we found him in the middle of the road like this."

"You didn't see anybody else out there, like a car accident maybe?"

Jared shook his head. "No. We flew down the road as quick as we could, but I didn't see any other vehicle out there in a ditch or tree. Nothing."

Appearing rather shakened, Hannah piped up while biting her thumbnail, "Chris? Tell me his memory will come back. Please tell me I did not just lie to that little boy."

Her childhood friend gave a great sigh, "Hannah, all I can tell you is there are cases where it's possible. If you want a percentage, I can't give you one because it's highly variable. I had feared this would happen since he experienced a fracture in the parietal-occipital area of his cranium—"

"But there's still a chance it's temporary?" Jared interrupted.

Chris pursed his lips, "Anything's possible."

"You said he had a hairline fracture to the parietal-occipital region," Hannah spoke up, "Is that what could be causing the amnesia?"

"Most likely. So far it's my best guess," Chris answered opening up his folder and taking a gander at his notes, "And I'm hoping that once the fracture heals, the lesion created there will disappear and the synapses will get firing again. Therefore allowing his memory to come back; maybe in increments, maybe all at once…but that is theoretically speaking, of course."

An overwhelming sense of ardor swelled up within Hannah at hearing her friend's prognosis about the child they rescued and she moved closer to her husband.

Sensing the close presence, Jared peered down at his wife, noticing the welled up tears and tense posture. "Are you okay?"

Hannah nodded while wiping her nose with a finger. Her gaze traveled over and rested on the opposite wall, whatever worked in order to regain her composure. "I just couldn't think of it getting any worse for this child. We don't know what kind of horror he faced to where he ended up like this. And now, not to have a single recollection of who he is or who he belongs to. I can't imagine what he's going through right now."

"Shhh, it'll be okay," he pulled her into an embrace, caressing the top of her head. "He's got us. And we'll stay with him as long as it takes for him to get back on his feet."

"You're right," Hannah wiped her cheeks. "He's got us. Good God, is he screwed?"

Both Jared and Chris smiled heavily.

"I'm sure he will be just fine. He seems like a good, functional kid. So I think he'll be able to survive the natural disaster you two are," Chris wisecracked receiving another critical glare. "I'll come by later to check in on him and see how he's doing."

"Thanks…And hey Chris?" Hannah called out before the young man walked away.

"Yeah," he whipped around.

"Would it be a problem if we stayed with him? You know, just so he doesn't wake up to no one."

"Uh, yeah sure. I don't see no problem with it."

"Thanks buddy. And hey, you're doing great in your first year."

"Thanks Hamster!"

As the doctor traipsed down the hallway, Jared wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulder and led her back into the room. Hannah once again took up her place on the bed while Jared resumed his seat on the other side.

"Well this is a wall I didn't expect to climb," Hannah huffed.

"You know, maybe it's a good thing he doesn't remember," Jared voiced, but then added,

"That way it'll help him to heal faster. Instead of remembering the trauma," when Hannah adopted a 'have you lost your "Vulkan" mind?' expression.

Her facial features lightened up. "That's true. But…Oh My God Jared, I just thought of something!"

"What?"

"You remember what he kept saying to us, 'bad men, Dean'. He kept saying 'Dean' over and over again."

"Yeah?"

"What if it wasn't just him? What if there was another one out there, hurt just as badly?"

Jared shook his head. "Chris had already asked me, but I didn't see anything else out there."

"But Jared, they could be lying in a ditch somewhere and we wouldn't know the difference."

Jared's eyes widened coming to the understanding of what she was implying.

"Oh God," Hannah placed a hand to her mouth.

Immediately Jared stood up. "Okay. Okay. I'll go check to see if there is anything else."

"You want me to come with you?"

"No, you stay here with Sam. I'll call Billie."

"Billie?"

"Uh huh. As much as it pains me, he's the only one close enough that's adequate."

"Okay," Hannah agreed, "Be careful."

**Phew, have you guys made it through? That was long, was it not? I'm sorry if it seemed like it kept going on and on…like 'get to the point already'. But I really wanted to go into depth about what kind of people the couple are and who they correspond with. So you know that way you won't think they're drug dealers or something of that caliber. Plus, now that Sam is officially amnesic, what's he going to do now? Next chapter you'll see what John and the Gang is up to. Until then, peace!!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey Guys! Get your tissues out for this one, cuz there are some parts in here that may get you a little teary-eyed. So you know, just as a fair warning. Plus a huge hint of where the plot of this story is in here and you may or may not be surprised. And warning, there is some profanity.**

A long frustrated yell sounded on the outside of a local bar a couple towns from Cottonsmill. The echo traveled far and wide across the flat land, stirring up all sorts of mainland critters. Three men stumbled from the unkempt place eager, anxious, and a little overall tired. They all headed straight for a dirty-rimmed dust-covered 1967 Chevy Impala, scuffing their feet, bummed out after another red flag.

Inside the dilapidated place of beer worship, many strong burly men hustled about guzzling down as much alcohol as possible. Others attempted karaoke, but jumped off the mini-stage once the thousands of beer bottles took flight. Women, scantily clad, roamed around looking for strong men to go home with; their fellow friends all competing for the big numbers. It was a good atmosphere for gossip and circulating babble. The men admired the activity surrounding the place; it was definitely up their alley. But when no one had any idea of what they had inquired about, they stormed out—well, John stormed out—disappointed.

John, the lead in his threesome posse including his fellow hunting buddies Caleb Reeves and Bobby Singer, let out another frustrated yell once they reached the car.

"Another bust! Another," he shook his head in irritation, "I don't think this plan of yours, Bobby, is working."

The middle-aged mechanic—dressed in a red and black flannel shirt and overalls—gave a big mighty shrug. "It's the only lead we got John," he answered in a gruff voice, wiping off a dusty imprint of "Wash Me" off the rear window.

The erratic man opposite him threw his hands up spouting off, "Tenth one! The tenth and still no one's ever heard or seen anything of that," he pointed at the frayed 'Red Sox' hat Caleb held in his grip.

"I know you're frustrated and I am too," Bobby reasoned crossing his arms, "But who knows? Whoever it was that took Sam might be from out of state."

"Then why would they come all the way over here just to kidnap Sammy?" John nearly shrieked, "What was the purpose? This is just…we're wasting time with this. I mean it's been two weeks. Only God knows what's happening to him right now."

"Cool it!" Bobby ordered, "You just have to cool it. Don't think of the worst yet Johnny. It won't help."

Caleb stepped forward, "We know this is hard. It's hard on us too because we know Sammy and we know Dean. We knew them since they were tots. But you flipping like this is not going to find him any faster. And without Dean, this hat is the only lead we got."

John looked at the two men and toyed with the idea of instigating a full on brawn's match. With the way his pent up anger and desperation accumulated, he needed to pound on something. But knowing how these men reacted in volatile situations, he'd be better off squaring off against a rhino. Deciding to take a better course of action, he remained silent scuffing his foot impatiently on the tarmac.

It hadn't been long after John's phone call that Caleb showed up in Dean's room. After witnessing the extent of the child's condition, Caleb stayed, allowing his anger to boil and simmer. He decided it was better to wait for Bobby to arrive to start anything, ultimately because it was better to work as a team. Since then John stayed with his comatose son, while the hunters banded and began the search party. He could still remember the conversation that transpired weeks prior that started them on this 'Holy Grail' type of mission.

"Has anyone contacted you yet?" Bobby asked him, dangling his keys in between his fingers as though he were preparing on leaving.

"No. Nothing!" John exclaimed, "Which I find odd, because even if it was a fucking demon, someone would have called."

"What all did the cops do?" Caleb piped.

"They searched the house and found nothing. No note or anything resembling a regular kidnapping."

"What did you tell them?"

"I said the only thing, besides my seven-year-old, was a couple hundred dollars missing, anything to get em' off my case."

"So they think that someone just did a regular burglary and Dean got caught in the misfire, correct?"

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

"Good thinking, we don't need extra baggage. What did you tell them about your job?"

"Only that I was a self-employed salesman. They can't really look much into that," John answered honestly seeing Caleb take a breather. He could understand Caleb's warrant for asking. The guy had more run-ins with the cops than the number of skittles you'd find in a large pickle jar. It might have something to do with his gangly look, sleek balding hair, and hardy expression. Or it could have something to do with his suspicious appearance, always wearing his long black trenchcoat; or the way he addresses the police with sarcasm.

Whatever the reason is, the authorities do have a strange attraction of stopping him and performing a standard check. It's like physics, where the electron is attracted to the proton; no matter what, the positive and negative energies are drawn to one another. And of course being a hunter, he never failed to be caught with outlawed knives, unlicensed guns and artillery, and not-to-mention the many fake id's. Needless to say, he learned to be a young MacGyver real quickly. So in Caleb's mind, it was necessary to know what the fellow 'enforcers of the law' were up to; what they had to be careful of.

That was the first time the two hunters left. When they had returned, they had returned hopeful. Bobby raised the hat first without saying anything, showing it to John, who had no idea of what to think when he saw it.

"What is that?"

"Our first and only clue," the aging man replied.

John stood up from his chair. "Are you sure? How do we know it's not one of Dean's hats?"

"Cuz last time I talked to your boy," Bobby fixed a baleful glare, "He was big football fan…will have nothing to do with baseball, especially those damn Yankee's. And don't even mention the Red Sox. So I know this has got to be something belonging to our mystery guest."

As thrilling as it was to finally have a clue, John looked unconvinced. Quickly picking up on it, Bobby added, "There was nothing else. No sulfur. No scratches on the windows. All the wards were working and the salt was still in tact. This wasn't a demon or anything relating to the supernatural. It had to be humans."

"Why would they go after my kids?"

"I don't know Johnny. Have you pissed anybody else off lately? Cuz so far you've had a nasty streak."

"None that I'm aware of," John responded, "Besides, other than you two, Jim and Joseph, I never told anyone else I had kids."

Bobby peered at him incredulously, "John they may be hunters and these people have sources like you have brain cells. If there's something they want to know, they'll find it."

John gritted his teeth. "I still don't think it's someone with a grudge."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't heard from anyone yet. No call, no note, no ransom. If it is someone trying to settle a score, then why haven't they called?"

Realizing the man made a good point, Bobby backed off. "Okay fine. It might not be. But there was nothing supernatural in that house."

Trying to remain calm as he felt his anxiousness once again begin to bloom, John asked, "Alright, what's the next course of action?"

And that was where they were now. Since the only clue that was found inside the house was the hat, all the hunters felt to do was to travel to surroundings bars and local areas, asking anyone if they had recognized the hat and it's owner.

John was furiously reluctant in leaving his son, and he hadn't…until two days prior. Dr. Fester had read off the boy's charts and decided to keep him in the medically induced sleep for a little longer. As he put it, the boy wasn't ready to come out of it and they will check again in the next couple of days. The longer John sat vigil—knowing that Bobby and Caleb were searching non-stop for his other boy—a certain feeling sprouted…like a longing to leave and help with the search.

He struggled with it for the longest time until it was clinically evident that if he didn't get up soon, he will have officially lost his marbles. Not apt to losing the few he had left, John compromised with himself that he would only try surrounding towns, no where further than a fifteen minute drive to the hospital. It was not just for himself, but for Dean as well, he told himself. He realized that if Dean had woken up and learned he hadn't done anything to help Sam…ooh, he didn't want to think of the repercussions for that.

Before leaving after a call from Bobby, he left a friendly and trustworthy nurse his pager number, in case there was an emergency—which ultimately meant, if there was ever a twitch in his left pinky, call immediately.

"John, are you okay?" Caleb asked when John had gone real quiet. From experience, he knew a quiet John was a never a good thing...like a great white preparing to strike, and they were the proverbial seal.

Snapping out of his reverie, John averted his gaze from the ground back to his friends who were watching him cautiously. "Yeah I'm fine," he cleared his throat, "Let's…let's, I guess go to another."

"Yeah, let's make like penguins and get the hell out of the water before you come chomping down," Caleb muttered.

"What?"

"Nevermind."

Before the hunters separated ways to go to their vehicles, John's phone started buzzing off the hook. Figuring it would be only one person calling, John answered, "Hey Jim. Anything?"

"Well Johnny I got bad news and even worse news. Which one do you want first?" the pastor offered politely.

"The bad news," John replied hesitantly. Catching the others' curious expressions, he pressed a button and put the receiver on speakerphone.

The pastor's voice echoed loudly over scratchy static, "Bad news is there is no word yet on who or what could've taken Sam."

John sighed. He figured as much. "What's the other news?"

"The other news is that there's a pattern. Cops haven't picked up on it yet, but so far six kids, all seven to eight years of age, have all gone missing within the last two months. Two more disappeared yesterday somewhere in south Montana. Some of the victims, a babysitter, an older brother and sister, and a couple of parents were beaten to death by 'what the authorities believe' was by a baseball bat or some steel metal device. Sound familiar?"

John could feel his heart jump up his throat. That's what the doc had said about Dean's injuries. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. But you're not going to believe this Johnny. Some of the kids still missing…about three or four of them all had nursery fires."

"What! Just like Sam's," John couldn't believe his ears.

"Just like Sam's," Jim reiterated.

His breath started coming in uneven rasps. He could feel his chest tighten and a dreadful pang through his heart cavity. He hadn't wanted for what Caleb had suggested to be true, and now it appeared to be leaning in that direction. "It's gotta be a coincidence."

"No. I looked at it and the odd thing is they were all six months old when the fires happened."

"Shit, Sam was exactly six months old when Mary…do you think this might have something to do with what Caleb was saying?" he asked praying the pastor will negate the awful suspicion.

"It's too early to say and we need more facts. But right now there are several kids all over the country taken in the exact same form. No one has seen or heard from them since."

At that statement, John didn't look too good. His skin instantly took the color of stark white and his hand shook. Bobby stepped forward and carefully took the phone from him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he steered him toward the Impala, opening it's door and forcing the man to sit. "Sit down before you fall down."

A wild despondent look could be seen in John's dark eyes, like he was a man going through a mid-life crisis and learned he had just lost everything. He muttered pathetically, "If they haven't heard from them or anything, then I'm never going to find Sammy. My boy. My baby. I'm never—"

He was interrupted when Bobby smacked him good on the top of his head. "Shut up."

"Bobby, no it's—"

"Shut the fuck up," the man thundered. He had a wild look of his own and John knew to stay quiet. Everyone knows not to pick a fight with Bobby Singer if and when he was angry…you might not live through the experience—in fact, you didn't want to.

"If you say another thing like that again, I'll ring your neck. And you know I will. There's something actually good to what Jim is saying."

Both hunters peered up at him interested.

"If there's a pattern, that means that it's demon activity," he continued, "If it was humans, they would be sloppy, not so meticulous. And who knows what the pervs would do to them. Apparently these kids were sought after, meaning that they were wanted for a particular reason."

John wasn't following. What the hunter was saying certainly didn't sound appeasing. Bobby went on. "If something wanted them, that means they're still alive, and we just have to find them. Jim, you still there?"

"Yeah," the pastor's voice crackled.

"Look at all the times and dates of the kidnappings and try to locate a direction, see if there is one."

"I'm on it," he said, and a certain clicking sound could be heard in the background. "After this, I'll be heading down there."

John perked up. "That's a long way, pastor, from Blue Earth."

"Fear not John, I will be there shortly. In the eyes of God, there is no speed limit."

The hunters all let out a snicker at that, when suddenly a loud beeping sounded from John's side. Quickly, he peered at his beeper and read the hospital's number along with a '911'.

"Oh no," he said hauntingly before whirling around in the driver's seat, turning on the car, and speeding off at ludicrous speed.

-

Despite being a couple town's over, John arrived in the hospital's parking lot in a record of seven minutes. He ran with speed compared to an Olympian track runner on steroids into the building and up towards his boy's room. As he neared, he could hear a lot of commotion and a lot of screaming—a child's scream.

His feet propelled faster until he practically skidded by the door. Peering inside, his breath hitched to see several staff members all surrounding his son's bed struggling with its occupant. John saw to his horror his son screaming—either in pain or panic, he couldn't tell—wrestling with the nurses, kicking his legs furiously.

"Nooo…nooo. I broke my promise," Dean hollered broken-hearted, "Nooo, I broke it. Sammy! Sammy! I'm sorry. Nooo!"

John's heart split in two and he slumped over on the doorframe.

His child continued to scream and yell, crying. "Dad! Dad! Please!"

At hearing his son's pleas, his quickly overcame his ridiculous guilt and rushed inside. He ran in on other side of the bed, and tried to help the other nurses pin him down, because his recently comatose son was putting up a bigger struggle than a cobra and a mongoose fighting.

"Dean. Stop. Dean, I'm here!" he called, but to no avail, his son kept flailing.

"We tried calling you. We brought him out of the coma and he woke up a few minutes ago screaming," the nurse beside him informed.

John didn't care, he had bigger priorities to worry about than the upsetting matter of waking his son up without him there…though he figured it wouldn't have made any difference. "Dean! Dean!"

"Nooo, Sammy!" his child screeched. Most of the equipment and wires were off, and the tube was out of his mouth. More than likely, it was the ventilation tube when the staff removed it was what woke the youngster up…bringing about the full shock of becoming conscious again. His irises were dull and dazed, like he was completely oblivious to what was happening. All he could feel were harsh grabs and loud voices.

"Where's the doctor?" John yelled.

The fitful nurse panted, "He's coming out of surgery. He should be here any minute!"

Suddenly Dean rolled, freeing himself from all the hands and he plummeted off the bed. Some of the nurses let out tiny yelps when the child fell. Coughing and panting, Dean started crawling away frantically, his tired limbs moving laggardly.

"Sammy…Sammy…Stay…Closet…Can't let them get him. Can't," he panted.

The staff bent down and grabbed the little boy by the arms.

"No! No!" he screeched, "Dad."

"Get off him," John bellowed rushing around the side, "I got him." As the nurses tentatively released the boy, John came down and gently picked him up, propping him against his chest. Dean continued to struggle out of his grasp. It was a wonder where all this energy came from.

"Come home Daddy please…No. No. Please don't hurt me anymore," Dean wailed.

"Shhh," John whispered in his ear, tightening his hold over his chest, "I'm here. Shhh."

The nurse he had spoken to earlier came forward, "Jerry went to get a sedative. He should be back any second."

John nodded in understanding. Dean had slowly begun to give up his struggles, obviously his exhaustion catching up with him. It was obvious that the child still believed he was in the house and with the kidnapper. And it was still apparent he wasn't going down without a fight.

Bobby and Caleb showed up, halting just outside the door, freezing in shock over the sight. John refused to give them a sign of acknowledgement as he concentrated on cooing to his child. Soon the orderly had returned and given the sedative. The kid palmed the fabric of John's jeans and kept pulling and tugging, still in the midst of his fears. Tears welled in the father's eyes once again as he kept a firm hold of his son.

"I swear to you Dean," he whispered, mainly so the other surrounding nurses and staff wouldn't hear, "We'll get them. And we're not going to stop until we find Sammy. I give you my word."

Soon the sedative kicked in and Dean's head slumped onto his chest. John glanced up at his friends, and they took a step back. They knew that look. It was apparent that whoever had done this had just committed an act of war. And not even the armies of both Hell and Heaven combined would stop him from exacting his revenge.

**Ah I told ya it would be sad. Usually I do sad fics (I know b/c I'm a depressing person), but to let you know it won't all be sad. Some good times lie ahead, so stay tuned. And if some of the dialogue or the hints of the plot didn't make sense, let me know. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! Well…this was supposed to be posted Saturday, but thanks to that lovely technical glitch, it had to be today. So an extra apology goes out to the people I promised that there would be an update on Saturday. :(**** Here's the next installment. I think you'll like this one. Some light moments and plenty of Sammy angst! **

_Two and a half weeks later: Ireton Children's Hospital_

"And of course with my luck as always, the bus didn't come," Hannah said monotonously, waving her hands around. "You'd think I'd have friends in high places to get me out of this mess, but no!"

Both Jared and Sam sniggered as they listened watching while the young woman stood by the bed commentating as if she were in a stand-up comedic act.

"So what am I going to do? I had a test the next day, there was no way I was going to wait three more hours. So we decided to walk back. It was only two miles, right?" She bowed her head, giving them a 'yeah, right' look. "Again, I reiterate just my luck!"

Sam sat curled, cuddled against Jared's side sucking on the band-aids on his fingers, eager and excited, and waiting for the next part. Jared had his eyes on the ceiling, already ready to mouth her next words.

"I was so going to kill Bethany for buying that big tin of popcorn. Not only was it twenty degrees outside, but we were wearing thin pants and just a sweatshirt. We had to pass off that thing back and forth, because our fingers would freeze onto it. And you know it's bad when you have to use your own breath in order to pry em' off!"

Sam giggled some more at some of the facial expressions she would make. Hannah was in the midst of narrating…and dramatically acting out yet another one of her ill-acquainted college adventures. There were plenty of games and activities in the hospital, but after playing Bingo non-stop for six hours; it was time for some story time. Hannah figured it wouldn't be such a bad idea in illuminating some of her past experiences.

This time was about the night of her undergrad university's Christmas parade in her freshmen year. She and a friend had gone to the store for some last minute groceries when the school's bus they rode had gotten stuck in traffic on the way back to pick them up. Not having the need or patience at remaining at the mart, they, in their infinite wisdom, decided to walk back. Of course, with the many bags full of produce and her friend's large tin can filled with three flavors of popcorn, it became an adventure all on its own. With the frigid climate as it was, the girls ended up tying the bags to their clothes, and sweatshirt head-strings, just to tuck their hands into their pockets. People begun to wave to them, believing they were a segment in the parade. If they weren't so frozen, they probably would have waved back!

"Oh my God, I can't tell ya how glad I was when I saw my dorm building," Hannah went on. "Until we hit the stairs. Three steps! Just three and we couldn't get up them. We were so frozen; we had to take the handicap ramp just to get inside. God, that hurt," she grimaced.

Jared gave a fake smile, nodding at the ending of it. He had probably heard the story at least six or seven times. Sometimes he swore his wife had short-term memory loss, because she had the odd tendency of forgetting she told him the story and would relay it all over again…but at least it didn't come without amusement.

The theatrical tale soon came to an end when Chris entered the room once again with his head down and reading his folder. Without waiting for the couple to respond, he asked,

"What story is it this time?"

"The FAU Bag Ladies," Jared enlightened.

"Ah. Again?" He raised an eyebrow, and then turned to leave.

"It's still good and you know it," Hannah yelled childishly after him.

Sam squirmed next to Jared, wanting to sit up, since his legs had lost feeling maybe halfway through Hannah's narrative. He was still incredibly weak from his ordeal, especially with the heavy sedative he was administered since his surgery.

Sensing the signs of distress, Jared sat up a little straighter on the bed and pulled Sam up with him. "Here ya go little man," he said, receiving a short nod of appreciation.

For the past two weeks, the couple had not left the little boy's side. Other than when Hannah had to go back to work, Jared stayed, keeping him company until she returned at the end of the day. The couple oversaw the recent surgery on his left arm, once the hospital cleared him for it. Due to the parents or guardians not present, the hospital ultimately had to override the policy, because it was necessary for the child's benefit.

All turned out well with the two bones re-fixed, held together by several screws, plus he was acquainted with a new cast which the entire hallway staff managed to sign and doodle. Dr. Chris's signature was the largest, totally noticeable by a sloppy smiley face and a drawing of a bug-eyed fish.

Often Hannah and Jared would read to him, play with him, and help him cope with the aspect of his memory loss and convalescence. Sam had strained himself in trying to recover his lost memory, almost to the point of constant anxiety attacks. Obviously since there consisted a persistent blank, he couldn't answer the demands of knowing what happened to him. It all remained a mystery. But he was glad that the couple was there for moral support when the hired child psychologist tried to unlock his mental workings and failed.

Naturally it was Hannah and Dr. Chris who kept him entertained throughout his recovery. Jared typically held him cuddled to his chest as Hannah read and sometimes reenacted a few works like _Wizard of Oz_ and _Gone with the Wind_. Only Sam wasn't so keen on the latter.

The happenstance of the boy's current state certainly had Jared wondering. The night when he returned to Route Fourteen had been interesting. Setting out with his 'annoying as Hell' cousin, he searched high and low for hours after his wife expressed her concern that there might have been another child. The two men traveled along the road, mostly exploring the area where they first encountered Sam. About a mile from that spot, they noticed a patch of the guard rail along a sharp curve was missing.

Interested, they decided to check it out. Upon peering down the side, they saw large ruts made by something large and heavy sliding down the small mountainside. Alarmed, both men ventured down the slippery slope as fast as they could and to their surprise found a black van upside down. Believing this was a big clue, they searched all around and inside. Thankful they found no bodies or anything; they were actually quite surprised to see nothing inside the van. No permits, licenses, no materials in the back, other than remnants of rope; nothing remotely useful as to establishing the van's or owner's identity.

Using his flashlight, Jared, due to his military training, found several footprints imprinted in the mud leading away from the wreckage. He followed the tracks on up the slope, but lost the trail as the tracks ended at the roadside. Figuring that whoever it was could possibly be injured, Jared put in a request to surrounding hospitals if there had been any emergencies over the past two nights, but to his dismay there had been none.

He ordered his cousin to go back to Aunt Millie's house, while he went back to his wife with the news. Since then he remained at the hospital comforting the little boy, getting a real feel as to what it would be like to being a real parent. And as shocking as it was to him, he hadn't minded it at all—in fact, he mostly enjoyed it. And seeing the zany exuberance his wife constantly was in a state in, he could tell she enjoyed it too.

At that moment, Jared didn't have a single clue of what to do if the real family was ever found. He wouldn't know how to react. Secretly, he wished that it wouldn't come to that. He wasn't selfish, but he couldn't describe the feeling he had towards the child. Like an overwhelming sense of protection, he…_and only he_ felt obligated to.

But the child deserved to have his family back. And as a good person—with a conscience that never stopped to pull a guilt-trip on him—he would protect the child until he was reunited with the long lost kin. So until then they would just have to buckle down and take on whatever challenge presented itself.

It wasn't long when the door opened again and Chris came in with a grave expression. Hannah noticed it and instantly became concerned. "Oh crap, I know that look. That's not a good look."

Chris scratched his smooth chin, evidently nervous beyond Hell. "Jared? Hannah? Have you found anything else on Sam? Like his parents? Anything?"

"No, we haven't. We just found him in the middle of the road and we then scooty-wootied on over here, remember?"

The doctor scrunched his eyes shut, and huffed out, "Oh crap."

At seeing the forlorn look, both Hannah and Jared became worried. "Chris, what is it?"

"Guess who's here."

Understanding exactly what her friend was implying, Hannah sighed, "Oh no."

As if on cue, a woman just a tad shorter than Hannah's 5'7 stature entered. Dressed in a navy body-suit with blonde hair pulled so tightly back in a bun, it appeared as though she had a mini face-lift. It was obvious by the stingy posture and arrogant facial pattern that this was a representative from the CPS.

Holding out a hand, revealing jungle-red nail polish, the woman spoke in a brusque tone. "Mr. and Mrs. Winslow I presume. My name is Tanya Coldbrook and I'm here on representation of Child Protective Services."

Hannah shook the woman's hand briefly, eying her with dislike. Jared reached over Sam and mimicked the brief hand-shake.

"And this must _the_ Sam I've heard so much about," She bent down giving a big fake smile showing not one, but three gold teeth on her bottom row and several others stained and cracked. _Jeez lady, get a toothbrush!_

Sam didn't respond to her. Instead he cuddled closer to Jared, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

"Shhh," Jared soothed, running his hand through Sam's hair.

But the lady didn't stop there, "There's no need to be scared. We have a nice facility with plenty of kids your age. And soon with time, you'll be with a nice family who will love you and care for you. So cheer up."

Hannah sent a look of betrayal Chris's way. Picking up on the pursed lips and dangerous eyes, Chris replied quietly, "I didn't make the call. The administration did."

"As it is procedure when an abandoned child is found," the CPS agent said boldly. "Shall we discuss this manner outside?"

Agreeing, Hannah and Chris followed the woman out. Jared gently picked Sam off him and left, closing the door. But not before he looked back in and imitated a funny face, causing Sam to smile. "Hang tight. We'll be back in a moment."

He wasn't quite sure what he had missed, but as he closed the door he heard the woman say, "Well thank you for your time, but you may go now. We'll take it from here."

Hannah's eyebrows shot up so quickly, they were like mini-rockets. "Uh excuse me?"

"Oh boy here we go," Jared mumbled.

"Yes. You are no longer needed."

Hannah bopped her head up and down, chewing her tongue. It was pretty clear she was getting upset. "Hymph. Tunia is it?"

"It's Tanya—"

"Whatever," Hannah interrupted, "Listen up, we're not just UPS people dropping off a mail-ordered package. We brought this child in and so far have overseen all his medical procedures and expenses. We have stayed with him, cared for him and 'as they say' he is a part of us now. So no, we are not just going to give him over to you guys just for you to cart him around."

Despite Hannah's powering tone, the woman appeared unfazed. She took a step forward. "I see your point and the state appreciates your time and sacrifice. But before you go any further, I oughta let you know we deal with people like you everyday. And we've seen every intimidation tactic in the book."

"Well that's nice to hear Gladys—"

"Tanya." The agent corrected in annoyance.

"But then I oughta let you know," Hannah took a step closer, "I'm not those people and I'll fight you every which way I can on this."

"Mrs. Winslow, I see your concern. But he is not legally your child, and since the boy's parents or legal guardians are not present, therefore he belongs to the government. Now either you drop this and go home or I will have to file a restraining order."

A dangerous flash crossed Hannah's face and she stepped forward threateningly, "Oh I would like to see you try!"

Jared quickly rushed forward and pulled his wife away before the CPS woman was horribly maimed.

"What the hell are you doing Jared?" Hannah exclaimed angrily, attempting to wiggle out of her husband's arms.

Jared ignored her, keeping her arms pinned to her side. "First of all, calm down! You beating the shit out of someone is not going to help in this predicament at all," he enforced. After a long second, he gave her a soft look, "You calm?"

"If you don't get your hands off me in the next two seconds, I won't be," she spat through clenched teeth.

Compliant, Jared released her allowing a few seconds for her to calm down. "Now I don't want to hear it anymore than you do, but Mrs. Coldbrook is right. We have no choice," he said.

His wife suddenly developed a look of shock. "What! You're siding with…I don't believe I'm hearing this!"

"Hannah, listen to me for a sec—"

"No!" She screeched, "I'm not just gonna sit here and let this poor little boy go through the same hell I went through. Going to several foster homes, never staying put, always praying the next set of parents will love you but instead you end up sorely disappointed with them hating you. He's already traumatized enough as it is. I won't do it Jared, I won't!"

"He won't be—" Tanya butted in.

"Shut up!" both Hannah and Jared half-shouted in unison.

"That's not what I'm saying," Jared reasoned, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder, "And maybe if you just chill a second, you can understand what I'm _trying_ to say."

Hannah eyed him impatiently, like 'come on. Wha' cha' waiting for?'

"There's no way we can stop him from going into the system, you heard what she said... But maybe if _we_ get into the system, then we can become his foster parents. That way we know he won't get lost and he'll be with familiar faces."

He took a moment's pause to let his wife consider this. Already she seemed to be calming a great deal. He turned to the social worker. "I mean it would be just temporary until we can find his real family or find out what happened to him. Because I'm sure with both our incomes combined, we're more than eligible."

Chris beamed at that, still keeping his stance in front of the woman…in case Hannah did decide to attack unexpectantly.

Jared turned his gaze back to his wife, who eyed him mirthfully. "I knew I married you for a reason." She turned back to Joan Rivers. "What d'ya say?" she asked giving her the death stare, daring her to argue.

The CPS agent gulped. Reluctantly she answered, "That'll work."

-

Several days later, the hospital gave the 'two thumbs' up for Sam to go home. Of course, with his newly acquired foster parents, home was an all new matter. Surprisingly the deliberations and eligibility procedures were expedited and within days after the argument, Hannah and Jared were appointed with a new addition to the family. Chris oversaw the final examinations on the youngster and declared he was fit to leave. Although he was given explicit instructions for plenty of rest, lots of playtime, and a scheduled date to remove the cast…which was way down the road.

Sam was roused from his daily nap when Jared dressed him in a new outfit Hannah had picked out at a nearby shop. Picking the boy up, he placed him in a wheelchair and playfully rolled him out; pretending the chair was a mini-race car and aiming to crash into hallway carts and walls, but skidding out of the line of fire at the last minute. It was hard on his leg, but the enjoyment and fun that were rolling off in waves from the kid; it was worth biting through the edges of pain.

Once settled in the backseat of the four-door pick-up, with a blanket and pillow, Sam immediately drifted off into a peaceful drug-induced sleep. Jared waited in the driver's seat as Hannah was giving her longtime friend another air-squandering hug. Chris backed away from the woman breathless—and as usual, with Hannah laughing.

"Take care ol' buddy ol' pal! Now go swim along and attend to all your other little fishies," she teased.

Chris glared. "I would so give you a lovely gesture right now, but we are in a children's hospital."

"So I'll see ya at the bar, then?" she smirked.

The glare seemed to be permanently plastered over the doctor's face. "Go home hamster. Go run on your wheel."

"I'll do that. In the mean time, make sure you don't get hooked," she said glibly, hopping up in the truck in time before the doc ran after her. "See ya Chris."

"Ciao, m'darling. Give my best to Sam…and to you too, Jared," he grinned devilishly.

Jared hailed him a short salute before turning the vehicle out of the main lot and onto the road.

-

Two hours later, Jared pulled the truck up into the driveway of their classic suburban home. Ladened in white vinyl paneling, the two-story stood out from all the rest of the neighboring houses, with its neatly kept lawn (though it was long overdue for a good mow), growing hydrangea bushes, and a refurbished front porch. It was a very quiet neighborhood, mostly run by retiree's intent on minding their own business, and barely any 'desperate housewives'. It was just the way the Winslow's liked it.

Jared's head fell back against the headstand. He let out a long relieved breath, thankful that he was finally home. It had been such a long while since he had been home; it almost felt foreign. He turned to his wife next to him, whose eyes shone with vigor, with that twinkle he loved so much. And it was clear she was also happy to be home.

"You got him?" she asked softly.

He nodded unbuckling his seat-belt. "Yeah."

Steadily stepping from the truck, he opened the backdoor and carefully pulled out the snoozing child and lifted him into his arms. The seven-year-old didn't stir, but wrapped his arms around his neck. Hannah reached in on the other side and pulled out the blanket and pillow. Upon entering the cold house, they immediately took Sam up to one of the guest bedrooms, unfurled the blankets and gently lowered him into the bed. After making sure Sam was comfortable, the couple quietly strode out of the room.

Sam had awoken sometime later when dinner was ready. Hannah had cooked up her infamous pasta salad with mash potatoes…a lot of starch, but the boys were complaining. The couple was weary about how Sam would react, especially since he survived on nothing but a liquid diet and mushy hospital food for a good three weeks. But to their surprise, Sam guzzled it down with gusto; probably as a testament to how much he missed real food. Hannah didn't mind at all when he nervously asked for more. After his bath, the triad had turned in for the night…and Jared was at last reunited with his large king-sized mattress.

The couple's blissful dreams and longing thoughts for a good night sleep crashed when they were woken up in the middle of the night by screaming. Sluggishly turning to one another with bewildered expressions, they soon realized the screams were coming from Sam's room. Instantly, they rushed out into hallway and sprinted down to the room at the far end of the short corridor to find Sam squirming under his blankets, still asleep.

His eyes were scrunched tight and globs of sweat adorned the child's face as it kept twisting from side to side. Among his loud cries, he kept muttering "No! No! Stop! Don't hurt him!"

Quickly Jared went to turn on the lamp-light while Hannah raced to the bed and immediately started prodding. Sam awoke with a yelp at the touch. Becoming aware of who was at his side, he clutched onto Hannah's silky nightshirt, beginning to shake from the woes of the nightmare. Jared came around on the other side of the bed and both attempted to comfort.

"Shhh, it's okay sweetie," Hannah cooed, stroking his back, "It was just a nightmare. You're okay."

But Sam wasn't responding to her coddling. He continued to shed tears, unable to stop quivering. Hannah looked up. "Jared, can you go make some warm milk?"

"Yeah," he agreed, immediately getting up and hobbling out of the doorway.

Hannah continued to hold onto the boy, hum to him, sing a few lullabies, much like she would usually do back in the hospital. It was the only way she knew to calm the little boy.

After a few minutes with Sam rocking in her grip, he told her timidly, "I'm scared."

Hannah gripped him harder. "Don't worry. You've got nothing to be scared about," she said using the comforter set to wipe some of the perspiration off his face. "You wanna tell me what you dreamed about?"

Sam shook head. "Please no."

"Sure. Sure. You don't have to tell me now. You don't have to tell me now," she whispered, "But you know, I always found that if I talked about my dreams; not only did they make me feel better, but I never had them again."

Sam stopped sniffling at that. He clung onto her side and pondered about what she told him. The dream was becoming nearly constant every night it seemed. The same dream. All he could see were images of a boy in a bathroom, lying on the floor in a bloody pool. There were several shouts and then echoing screams, and then more blood. He couldn't see the boy's face. But boy, did he so want to! And yet, it terrified him at the same time. He wanted the fragmented images to stop. He peered up into Hannah's soft eyes, becoming drawn into them and feeling much at ease.

Jared came hustling back in a few minutes later with a mug of warm milk. "Here drink this and you'll feel much better."

Sam immediately slurped the whole mug down. Finished with it, he handed the cup back to Jared, who set it back on the lamp table, whilst Hannah wiped off Sam's newly acquired milk moustache. Afterwards, all three stayed cuddled with one another until Sam fell back into oblivion. Once they realized a bomb wouldn't stir the youngin', Hannah and Jared quietly made their way downstairs into the kitchen.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Jared put on a pot of tea. Hannah sat at their bar table staring absent-mindedly into the oak tabletop. Jared turned and caught her worried expression. "You okay?"

Hannah swallowed convulsively. It took her several tries before she finally managed to spit out, "I just want to know what happened to him. I don't want this to be a mystery anymore."

"Me too," Jared sighed taking a seat on the opposite side of the table.

Hannah suddenly clenched her fists and grounded her teeth. "God, this is all so frustrating. I wanna help him, but I just don't know how!"

"I know."

"Especially now," she gave him a sad look, "Because I can tell you right now, this is just the beginning of the nightmares."

**Aww, poor Sammy. Told ya there would be some Sammy angst. And kudos to Cuddygirl18 for figuring it out. You go girl! Hope it didn't seem too long. The story picks up in the next one where you have John on the rampage and a new lead is found. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Hola peoples! Get prepared for this one as I think John's sanity has gone AWOL. But can you really blame the guy? Plus, there a major twist at the end that will probably make you want to get out the boxing gloves…or artillery…or whatever that will do a lot of damage! Peace! In the meantime, I will reply back to your lovely reviews, but another glitch is happening that won't let me see them. Don't let that discourage you, I'll figure it out. Have a good one!**

Over a month and a half had gone by and John was losing it.

He hadn't expected time to fly by like it had. And the faster the days…minutes…hell seconds zoomed by, the more he was loosing his patience. Incredibly reluctant in calling upon other hunters, John at some point in his search felt he had no choice. The search was growing cold by the day. With the little description he obtained from his son about the perpetrators, he put his resources to good use. Along with Bobby and Caleb, they continued non-stop. They were exhausted, well-spent, and sometimes in a daze. But now they had heard of a new lead and were once again on the road.

Dean had been released from the hospital a couple days prior, and has been bedridden and in the supervision of their most trusted friend Jim Murphy since. It had been a relief that the doctors concluded there were no lasting brain damage once he had regained consciousness. However, after a few tests, they learned that Dean had lost about sixty percent of his hearing in his left ear. But luckily, according to advanced medicine, the doctor's were confident that with time his hearing may come back. John prayed it would be soon, because he didn't think his child could be any more depressed.

After being released, John absolutely refused to bring Dean back to the house. He feared it would promote unwanted memories. John fought hard against the inner father within him. As any, he wanted to stay with his son…keep him safe. But when the aforementioned plan of locating Sammy had finally dawned on the boy that his little brother hadn't been found yet, it sent him into complete hysterics. John's friends and fellow hunters remained on the outside while John attempted to coax and comfort. It was a good two hours before Dean finally settled. But not before John felt his heart split again over when Dean cried out non-stop 'he failed' and was now viewed as a major disappointment. No matter what John had tried to tell his son, Dean refused to think differently.

It was tough in obtaining a good description of the miscreants who had done this. Dean shuddered every time he thought of the bastards, but suffered through the devastation and told all that his memory surfaced. A pounding rage struck when John learned there wasn't one, but two monsters…and had used a crowbar to beat the boy off. In a fit of rage, John punched a hole in the hospital's drywall, ultimately being forced out for the day.

Since then, John called up every hunter that he knew—and was still on a talking, no shooting basis—and put them on alert and to keep a very low key about it, in case the goons were tipped off. A month had gone by with no word.

Until…

The previous afternoon, Bobby had received a call from a buddy somewhere in southern Idaho. The 'friend' that had a name and an address Bobby was adamant that remained anonymous, found a lead on the particular description. Immediately the triad set out towards the destination. John was still nervous in leaving his son at the motel. The look, however, that Dean gave him when he expressed that he wanted to keep him company, shut him up quick. He knew then his eldest would never forgive him if he had done nothing. So…with a short nod to the pastor, John set out with the others, driving like a maniac onward to Idaho.

The local bar the 'friend' had mentioned was a decent facility. Formed in an 'L' shape, the outside was surprisingly neatly kept, with several newspaper stands lining up to the door, and quite a few cigarette logos illuminating the windows in neon orange lighting. The hunters all steadily stepped inside to a huge cloud of smoke. They coughed and gagged, swiping at the air, rushing forward to the center in hopes to get out of the smothering smog.

_God, there's enough smoke in here to power up a steam engine_, Bobby thought callously.

Despite all the nicotine-addicted inhabitants, the bar seemed like a calm quieted place, other than the previous jovial, eccentric places they encountered. Many men dressed in John Deer hats and ratty vests sat hunched at the bar top centered at the back, all sipping on glasses filled with golden liquid. A few waitresses walked about with serving trays handling out beer bottles to the few players at the pool tables. It was apparent everyone in the place minded his or her businesses, because not a one looked up to see the three determined men swiping at the air, probably choking to death on the fumes.

John shook his head. He didn't have time to die from second-hand smoke. Making a bee-line for the bar with the red hat tucked in his grip, he approached the bartender—a scrawny man with long tawny hair pulled back in a pony-tail clothed in a black vest and tee-shirt.

Leaning against the counter, John raised the hat. "Have you seen a guy in here that wears this?"

The bartender studied it, then scrunched his lips shaking his head. "Sorry no. I haven't," he answered deeply, "But I haven't been here for very long. I think you might have betta luck askin' round'."

That was expected. John nodded turning away. "Thanks."

He took a look around at the occupants sitting on the stools. A guy with blonde shaggy hair and bug-eyes sitting a few seats away he caught staring, but then instantly glanced down. Part of John's eye twitched. He turned to his fellow comrades, "Set out. Ask everybody in here."

Bobby and Caleb agreed splitting in separate directions. John had his eye on the guy and began to make his way towards him. The guy hadn't moved. When John stood next to him, it was like the guy anticipated it. He didn't look up, but stared wide-eyed at the chipped bartop.

John cleared his throat, and he could've sworn the guy jerked like he had touched an electric fence. Eh, he did have that sort of effect on people. "Excuse me? I'm looking for the man who owns this hat. It's very important that I find him. Do you have any idea of who this belongs to?"

The guy shook his head spasmodically. "No, sorry."

"You sure?"

He still refused to look up. "Yeah."

John didn't reply back. He continued to stare at him suspiciously. After a long moment when it was clear the non-blinking death eye-stare wasn't working, he moved on. Once the guy saw John was a good ways apart, he tapped the fellow's shoulder sitting adjacent to him, and they both hauled ass. Another member from the bar also followed suit towards the exit.

Noticing the quick escape, all three hunters took off at a sprint out of the bar. The three escapees looked as though they were running towards a large Dodge truck. They were fast…but not fast enough.

With John in the lead, he outran the other two by a good yard aiming to plow into the getaways…into the truck if he had to. One of the men, a burly black man turned around with his arms spread, probably hoping to fight off the oncoming men, and give his other two buddies a chance. His hopes were dashed when John knelt down and rammed his shoulder into the guy easily knocking him off his feet. Alarmed, the other two men stood frozen. John was like a raging bull, nothing but a good sized tank could stop him.

Once he reached the other two cronies trying to get inside the truck, John grasped the nearest one by the rim of his vest and threw him back towards the others wolves. He reached again and pulled the shaggy-haired guy out and onto the ground.

"Don't move, or I swear to God I will rip you apart with my bare hands," he spat angrily, his eyes wide with animosity.

The guy didn't dare to move…though it was quite difficult with the terrifying man's knee grounded into his chest. He kept plastered to the ground with his hands spread in surrender.

His friend, however, refused to give in so easily. The buck-toothed moron came back around swinging at fist at Bobby, who caught the appendage in his palm. After throwing out a kick to the guy's thigh, then thrusting his knee into the guy's gut, the old man wrenched him around into a head-lock. Securing his hold for a good minute, the guy finally succumbed and dropped to the ground unconscious. Caleb kept watch over the other man with his nine millimeter.

John straightened up when he knew the trouble was at bay. Picking up the man by his throat, he slammed him against the side of the truck-bed, receiving a pained yelp.

"What do you know?"

A strained whimper emanated from the scraggly man. He pleaded, "I…I d-don't know."

"Not good enough," John whispered dangerously, throwing a heavy punch into his gut. "You rushed out of there fast once you saw this. Now who does this belong to?"

The guy gasped for air. "I don't know. I swear!"

"Oh really?" John slipped his little pig-sticker knife out from his back pocket and tauntingly pointed it at the man's groin. "Let's try that again."

Shaggy's lip trembled. His bright blue eyes watered at the man before him, becoming the size of saucer plates at the presented knife.

Impatient and angry, John plunged the blade down into the side of his thigh. Shaggy screeched in pain, doubling over. His friend stirred on the ground, but stilled when Caleb pulled back the lever on his gun.

"You think that's bad, then how about we cut something off?" John wrenched the blade out.

Terrible shakes issued from the man held in John's grip. They increased ten-fold when he aimed the knife down. "No please! Don't!"

"Then talk!" John bellowed.

"John, maybe you should—," Bobby stepped up beside him, but stopped short when he witnessed the unadulterated rage flourishing in John's eyes. Cautiously, he took a step back. It wouldn't have mattered if he had chose to protect the man, he saw right there it wouldn't have made any difference.

Sniffling incessantly, Shaggy gasped out clutching the spurting wound from his leg. "I don't know much about him."

John gripped his knife tighter now angling it at the man's throat.

"P-please…I…I h-have children," he pleaded.

At that statement, John relented his grasp, taking a step back. "Heh, he's got kids," he grinned creepily at the other two hunters. "Oh that's so nice," he slammed the guy back against the truck forcefully.

"Tell me. How would you feel if you came home and found your baby, just seven years old, taken…probably dead… and your other one, just barely twelve, nearly beaten to death, covered in his own blood, and dying in your arms where you possibly only have precious seconds left with him?"

The guy went mute, even his sniffles stopped.

John raised the cap. "That is what this man—this fucker did to me, did to my family who were defenseless. The same with several other families all over the U.S., destroyed. The longer you keep quiet on this guy, the more families, the more children are taken and possibly are killed. Do you want that on your conscience?" he gritted his teeth.

Shaggy bowed his head, glancing the other way. "No, but he'll go after mine if I say anything."

"Trust me pal," John's eyes narrowed, "I'm capable of a lot worse and with the way I'm feeling right now, he'll be like a wasp's sting compared to what I'll do. Now tell me, do you really want your kids to meet me?"

Shaggy gulped, eyeing him fearfully.

"He is my only last connection to finding my son. And I won't stop. Even If I have to bring the gates of Hell with me, I'll do whatever it takes to get my boy back," John roughly released him.

The guy's body still trembled standing in front of the men hunched over. Still admiring the dirt at his feet, he spoke quietly, "His name is Eric Scrieber. He's a local round here."

"Is he a hunter?" Bobby asked.

Shaggy slowly shook his head. "Not really. Last I heard, he only trapped squirrels and small game, nothing big like the elk and deer `round here...But he does have his tricks. Likes setting bear-traps and leaving em'. He's a bad, bad man. Gets his kicks off beating on other people too, mostly the helpless, like women or sometimes kids."

Caleb and Bobby shared looks realizing that whomever this person was, it could get real ugly…either that or they were going to have a treat in putting this guy down.

"He crippled three teenagers once with the butt end of a shotgun because they skated on his property," Shaggy went on.

"Does he still live here?"

"No, he and this other guy, Paz or Pune or something…I don't know his first name, took off several months ago. No one knows why or where," he scuffed the rocks until there was a nice rut carved in the gravel driveway. "I gave him that hat," he nodded at the piece of material, "Well…actually he took it from me. The number forty-three on the back there was my daughter's favorite race driver."

"Do you know where he is now?"

Again the guy shook his head. "No. Hardly anybody wants to have anything to do with him, he's just downright mean. One of those kind."

John squinted his eyes. "Then how come you ran from us? All of this could've been avoided—"

"Unless perhaps you're telling us what you want us to hear. Like you're protecting him," Caleb suggested.

Shaggy's eyes widened and he clutched his thigh harder. "No. No I swear. He's just a guy that came to the local bar every week. I ran because I don't want to get involved. And with the way you stared me down mister, you scared the crappa out of me."

"Good," John said. "Now get back to your family. You hear from him or anybody who has seen him, you call me on this number," he handed him a slip of paper out of his pocket. He looked down at the growing crimson spot on Shaggy's thigh. "It's a flesh wound, it'll heal real fast." He turned away.

"Oh," John whirled around, "And don't think you can call him right away after this to warn him, because if you do, you'll be next on my hitlist…and I never miss. I mean that."

Bobby also gave the guy a stern look before following behind his close friend who was stomping away. Caleb let up on pointing his gun at the guy on the ground, stowing the device in the back part of his jeans.

"You wanna know something Johnny?" Bobby announced striding alongside the Winchester's giant stride, "When you get mad, you're scary."

John smirked. "Good. It might come in handy someday. Get on the phone. Call up anybody we know that we can trust. I want to know every little thing there is about this Scrieber."

-

Several long whines and terrified cries could be heard from the back. Harsh clangs sounded across the metal mesh wire. Several kids beat against the metal with their tiny fists, crying out over the stifling humidity and the dark. The cries echoed louder the longer the darkness existed. Some of the kids sat huddled holding onto one another, others burrowing into the hay at their feet. Many barefoot and still clothed in their pajamas, having been taken in the middle of the night.

The clanging had stopped when heavy footsteps sounded close by. Soon a bright flare of sunlight cascaded the kids, forcing them to cover their eyes. Scores of dust and hay was seen and it was revealed that the cages were stored inside a barn. Two men walked in through large wooden doors carrying large bags. One of the kidnappers, the kids all know with the patch on his eye, dropped his sac and cut it open with a small blade, and out fell dozens of apples and pears. Picking them up with both of his hands, he began chucking the fruit through the gaps in the bars. The frightened children immediately set after the fruit, gnawing on them like starving pit-bulls.

Once the kids were occupied on their meal, the other brute unlocked the cage on the far left. Reaching in, he pulled out a little girl with short brunette hair. The girl in her dust-covered white night-gown squealed with terror. The man easily picked her up under his arm and set off, while his partner relocked the cage.

Exiting out of the barn, the girl shielded her face from the bright sunlight as the jerk walked through a prickly thicket, heading towards an old house. Entering the run-down structure, he set the girl down and led her towards an open space with an old high-backed chair centered in front of an antediluvian fireplace. A small fire burned and crackled, lighting the empty room in a dim-light. It resembled much like a scene in a Disney movie where the main villain was revealed.

The little girl continually tripped over the loose floorboards inside the house as she peered curiously around her. Once inside the room, the burly brute stopped her on the side of the chair. Teary-eyed and apprehensive, the little girl glanced up at her captor. His partner came in through the door behind them.

"Here she is, sir. The girl from Iowa," Scrieber said.

Suddenly the chair creaked and a hand snaked out from the side. The child's eyes widened at seeing the withered papery skin, bony spine-like fingers, and mutant veins. It could've passed off as the cryptkeeper's hand. It eerily extended forward and pulled the sticky tendrils of hair out of the little girls face.

"Ah, so pretty," a scratchy deep voice said.

The little girl shuddered at the man's icy touch. It was chilling her to the bone. Even her captor behind her shook at hearing the cold voice.

A certain wheezing sounded from the chair. After the second or third wheeze, the man who remained faceless asked, "What's your name child?"

The little girl peered up at her captor once more, unsure if she should answer. The man shoved her roughly. "Answer him," he demanded.

Tentatively, the girl said, "A-Av…va. Ava."

Another wheeze echoed. "Ava. So pretty…for such…a pretty girl," the voice gave a small chuckle. "Scrieber?"

"Yes boss?"

"Put her upstairs with the others."

"Yes boss," the man obeyed leading the little girl away.

"Punje?" the voice barked.

"Yes boss," the partner with the eye patch came forward, keeping his stance behind the chair.

"I've…I've had a-another," the voice croaked.

"Another vision sir?"

"Yes, you foul dim-witted twit!" the voice spat, "There is a little girl…blonde…precocious. She has a marvelous gift, one with a special uniqueness for the cardiac system. I want her immediately."

Punje straightened up when he heard his master's voice strengthen. "Aye sir. Where is this little girl?"

"In a city. Flashes…trees…bridge. Red and big."

The henchmen thought hard about the description. He put two and two together and guessed. "The Golden Gate Bridge sir?"

"Yes."

"The city you speak of is San Francisco."

There was another light wheeze. "Good. Another sign. She likes to swing up in Cherry trees. Sign…Carson street…sign…third house…many in a circle…sign…ah, third house on the left. Go immediately."

"Yes sir," the man nodded. "We'll be right on that," he turned to leave.

"Punje?"

Eye-patch stopped dead. "Sir?"

His master hacked and coughed some more before finally asking sternly, "Have you located the one you lost?"

The man let out a long heavy sigh. Deep-down he knew the problem would have come up. "No sir. We've tried—"

"No you didn't! You were more worried about your own injuries."

The man sighed again. "Still sir, for all we know, he may be dead—"

"Doesn't matter," the boss interrupted. "I still want him. After you retrieve the girl, set out and find him. Don't come back until you do."

**Ooh, Sammy's still not out of trouble yet. Yeah, that was just a glimpse of what the boss is like. Don't worry, you'll get to see him later on. Like I said, I've got a big sequence coming up. And those bastards…caging little kids like that, like animals! Can you imagine what Bobby would be like if he saw that…ooh crap- that was a major hint! Tee-hee! And I do hope this chapter made sense. This was real important as far as the other chapters go. So if it doesn't, ask away and I'll see if I can help! Tootles! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello again! Last chappie brought on some questions now, eh? Yah, I don't blame ya! They will be answered, have no fear! However this chappie…get the fans out girls, cuz there is a few 'awww' moments in here!...Well, I think anyway! And many of you will be happy to know Dean is back! Plus since the system is no longer on the fritz, I will be getting back to your reviews! Cheers!!!**

Sam rolled over.

Blowing off the bangs on his forehead, he stared glumly at the ceiling. This was the third night in a row he was having trouble getting to sleep. Time after time, he forced his eyes closed, hoping the essence of sleep would happen. But he ended up severely disappointed. He rolled over again. Peering at his new Mickey-Mouse alarm clock glowing on the lamp-side table, he groaned learning it was three-thirty-nine a.m.

This was getting ridiculous! For a whole month now, it never seemed to stop. The nightmare. On and off, the dream would come. The same dream of the little boy in the bathroom kept occurring as if his dream-bank were a drive-in movie theater with only one showing. Flashes. Screams. Pounding. It was all he could interpret. Only now there were more flashes and the shouts weren't so muddled. He could actually hear what they were saying…and they weren't good.

He wanted to sleep, but his body had other plans. Maybe this insomnia was perhaps his subconscious protesting against seeing the dream again. But that didn't mean zero sleep at all. He refrained from calling the Winslow's in. He had lost count of the times he did wake them during his time of tribulation. Already dark circles were beginning to form under his eyes…and he was only seven.

Rolling over again, he stared up at the ceiling once more. He remembered what Hannah said to do about counting tiles, or in this case the glow-in-the-dark stars they placed all around the ceiling. So in his state of boredom, he started naming off constellations.

"Sagittarius…" he pinpointed the pattern. Looking over he saw another, "Cassiopeia."

He found another one, "Orion…Peices…Gemini." He kept naming them off, hoping the edges of sleep would take him…however it did not. He looked over at his clock again and read four twenty-eight a.m.

Frustrated and over-all too tired to keep fighting, he stood up. Perhaps if he played or read a book, that would do the trick.

Forty-five minutes, two _Nancy Drew_ books, and one poorly played game of Scrabble later, he gave up; instead he began to pace around his small room. When that didn't work, ultimately he decided to go to Hannah and Jared after all. It was incredibly dark in the hallway. So much so, he could hardly see his hand three inches in front of him. But that's okay; all he had to do was follow the dinosaur roar's that was Hannah's snores and he'd find it no problem.

Sure enough, the noise led him straight to their door. As he opened it, the sound reverberated loudly, and he could've sworn had blown him back a couple steps.

Quietly slipping into their bedroom, he crept up to Jared who was fast asleep. Carefully, he poked the man's shoulder. He had finally stirred after the sixth or seventh poke, opening a bleary eye.

"Mister Jared?" Sam asked nervously, "Can…can I sleep with you and Mrs. Hannah tonight?"

Jared gave a small smile, lifting the comforter. Sam climbed up on the four-poster, crawled under the blanket and snuggled in between the two adults. Soon he fell soundly asleep, even with Hannah's house-leveling snores.

-

The morning rays poured in through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm light. A delicious mouth-watering smell wafted through the main door, and instantly Jared woke sniffing at the fragrance. Shaking the vestiges of sleep, he sat up in bed, noticing that Sam was nowhere to be seen. Curious as to what Sam was up to, he slid his legs over to the side, ready to get up.

The door opened at that moment and Sam came in carrying a tray full of food. His face was contorted in concentration, trying to maintain the tray's balance on his casted arm. Jared watched him as he carried it over to his side and plopped it down on the bedspread. There he saw the tray was filled with a plate topped with scrumptious pancakes with strawberries and a half-massacred banana slice forming the shape of a smiley face. A big smile flourished across Jared's face.

"Hey little man. What cha' got here?"

"Pancakes," Sam piped.

"Are they for me?"

"Uh huh," the little boy peered up at him with his puppy-dog eyes.

"It looks great," Jared exclaimed placing the tray on his lap and picking up the provided fork. He took a bite, and immediately his mouth watered for some more. "Holy crap, this is awesome."

"Really?"

"Really. Really."

"Okay!" and Sam ran off out the door.

Jared smiled again. He then nudged his wife whose mouth was hanging wide open. She awoke with a snort, "Ah, friggin monkey bare buns."

Jared cocked an eyebrow.

Hannah fidgeted awake. Opening her eyes and catching her husband's peculiar expression, she slurred out, "What?"

"What were you dreaming about?"

"I don't know," She rubbed at her eyes. "Something about a monkey stealing my money," she sat up, resting her head against the backboard. Throwing a pointed finger at her husband with her eyes still closed, she said, "I got it back though."

Jared snorted. "Yea, I bet you did."

Soon his wife became fully awake, also sniffing at the fantastic aroma. "Hmmm, what's that smell?"

"It appears we have a little chef in the house."

Hannah peaked open a bleary eye. "Really?"

The door opened again and Hannah looked up. "What's going on? Ahh, thank you Sam," she said taking the tray the little boy handed out, grinning mightily.

Jared swallowed a mouth full, "The little chef here has brought us breakfast in bed."

"Ah wow! This looks delicious," Hannah exclaimed noting the sloppiness on the plate.

She looked up, "Sam, where's your plate?"

"I already ate. I had to test it out," he replied climbing on the bedspread, which caused the couple to smile heavily. As Sam struggled to climb, Hannah leaned toward her husband as a certain thought struck her. "Honey, do we even have pancake mix?"

Jared blinked, then stared at her blankly with a mouth full of pancake pattie. Finally up, Sam sat at the end of the bed watching the couple eagerly.

Noticing the expectant gaze, Jared blurted, "This is excellent little man. Where'd you learn how to cook?"

Sam shrugged. "I always knew how to cook, since I was five. Me and...me..." he thought about it, but could only come up with a blank face. "…someone."

Hannah and Jared stilled. Could he possibly be remembering?

Sam shrugged again. "Yeah whoever it was, we always made pancakes on Saturday morning just after Bugs Bunny. And they could make shapes. It was a lot of fun."

Jared turned to his wife who also shared the hopeful look. Suddenly pain etched across the little boy's face and he clutched his head. The sharp pain that flashed morphed into a full-blown headache and he fell onto his side. Removing their trays, Jared immediately ran to get the child's Tylenol, while Hannah sidled next to Sam.

Limping into the kitchen, Jared stopped short at seeing the kitchen in a gigantic mess. Egg cartons and eggshells littered everywhere. Flour sprinkled the countertops and covered a huge portion of the floor. The fruit was left squashed and the pans were left on the stove in one big sticky mess. Jared shook his head. _The joys of life_…

"Shhh. Just lay and close your eyes…no. No don't scrunch em'," Hannah advised. Sam did so and soon the sharp pains were fading away. He opened his eyes a few minutes later and sat up.

"You feelin' better?" Hannah asked.

Sam blinked. "I saw a boy."

"Really? Like you thought of him…or you remembered him?"

"I don't know," Sam cocked his head to the side, "He was in my head. He had yellow hair, taller than me…and has a bad mouth."

The smile on Hannah's face kept widening. "Can you see anything else with this boy?"

"No. He's just there, reading…I think it was a magazine. It had a girl on the cover. And I think I made him mad, because he yelled at me to get out. Was I in trouble?"

Hannah shrugged. She pulled him into a hug. "I'm sure you weren't. But that's great, baby. Ha, that's more than great."

Dr. Chris was right. His memory was coming back…but only in increments.

---

"A-A-A-Choo!" a sneeze sounded inside the cramped hotel room.

"Bless you Dean!"

The eleven-year-old on the dingy bed shuddered. He swore his head lopped off and went with the giant sneeze his body just produced. Rubbing his nose, he slumped back against the mound of pillows. "T-thank you, Pastor Jim," he rasped.

"You're welcome laddie. Do you need anything?" the pastor asked whilst reading. His eyes never left the newspaper in front of him.

Dean slowly shook his head as though he expected the pastor to be looking at him. He shifted uncomfortably on the bedspread. Since he had been released from the hospital, he had been bedridden…and miserable. The sling on his right arm was in a perpetual itch-fest as well as the brace on his right leg. Sometimes he would scratch absently at them for hours. And if it weren't for those two items, he wouldn't feel so immobile…and helpless.

Since his release, he was constantly told to rest…which he didn't mind. The pain medicine he was prescribed typically zonked him out for a good while. Plus with his injuries still on the mend, sleep was rather desirable. It also kept his mind out of the agonizing worrying state over his brother. It felt like there was a gaping wound in his heart that hardly seemed to heal. Just thinking about his baby brother and what could possibly be happening to him was like reaping open that wound and adding salt to it. It stung like Hell!

He wished his dad and the others would hurry. He wanted desperately to get out there, alongside them, and help with the search. Mostly, he felt it was his fault they were in this position. If only he had fought the two kidnappers better, then nothing would have happened to Sammy. For all he knew, his baby brother was dead. He struggled from time to time in regaining his strength, but his injuries were too severe. And he was kept solely on the comforter set, with nothing but the TV and the Pastor for entertainment.

His head was slumped to the side of his pillow, his mind in a dull haze, as he watched another episode of Scooby Doo. The team of Ghostbusters had finally revealed the culprit with the infamous line of "I would have done it if it weren't for you kids," when his father came in through the door. He perked up at seeing the light-hearted expression on his father's face. That must mean he had found something, because lately his father usually sported a dark, brooding face.

"Dad? Anything on Sammy?" he asked weakly.

John immediately made his way to the bed. "Nothing on Sammy's whereabouts…but we did find a new lead," he beamed, "And I think we're getting close. We put out the call on the bastard, and hopefully we'll hear something soon."

Dean let out a long breath. "That's great," he said breathlessly.

"How're you doing Ace?" John came up and ran a hand through the kid's spiky hair.

"I'm…I'm good," he tried to sit up, but struggled greatly. His left arm quivered like jello like it was a giant toothpick about to break. When the strain became too much for his battered body, he fell back disappointed and heart-broken. John noticed the stress his son dealt with. Taking a seat beside him, he lifted him up carefully into a sitting position.

"Take it easy. You don't need to get upset," John remarked when tears began to well up in his son's eyes. Dean covered his face, not wanting his father to see how distraught he became after being unable to do that simple task.

He sobbed. "I'm sorry sir. I…I just f-feel useless."

John peered down at his son curiously. "Why?"

"I c-can't even sit up in a bed. God, I'm so worthless. How am I going to even help Sammy?" he cried out harder.

"Dean. Don't do that," John wrapped an arm around the small quivering shoulders. "You have to keep in mind you're still healing. And with the kind of injuries you have, it's gonna take awhile. But that in no way makes you weak. Not at all. I mean you still get up on your own to go to the bathroom, right? I mean, doesn't he Jim?"

"That's right," the pastor agreed gaping over the top of the newspaper.

His child continued to weep in his arms. "So don't worry. With time comes healing. And before you know it, you'll be back to your old self in no time."

"I'm sorry this happened. I tried to save Sammy—"

"Dean, please don't do this again."

But it was as though the boy didn't understand his plea. "If I was only better. I could've saved him. This is all my fault."

He said it with such conviction, John didn't know how to respond to him. "Dean, listen to me," he spoke softly. "After what you told me had happened, I can't be any more proud of you. I mean, it must've taken some serious guts to even think about fending them off. If it was me, more than likely I probably would have run."

Dean's sniffles ceased and he looked up at his father unconvinced. John laughed. "Seriously, I probably would have. So don't blame yourself. You did the best you could. And what happened to you and Sammy was in no way your fault. I don't know what else to tell you. Now I told you we'll find Sammy and I mean it. We haven't stopped yet, and we don't plan on it. Alright?"

His son answered his question by cuddling closer into his side. John let out a long relieved breath. It was times like this that he surely did miss. Even though he wished the circumstances were different. Because if truth be told, he hadn't been this affectionate towards his children since before Mary passed.

"Have you taken your medicine yet?"

Dean nodded.

"Good boy. Now what I want you to do is to not worry about anything else but yourself. Because the faster you heal, the faster you can get out there and help me."

"Yes sir."

"Alright," John smiled holding his son closer, "And you know I kinda feel bad for those bad guys."

Dean looked up at his father interested.

"Because if they still do have Sammy, he's probably talking their ear off right now. I wouldn't be surprised if sooner or later they bring him back. Probably would pay us to take him back, knowing how he is."

Dean made a sound, a mix of a snort and a sob. "Maybe not dad."

"What was that?"

"I said maybe not. I don't think he's with the bad guys."

John stared inquisitively at his son. What was he trying to say? Maybe it was just blind faith…maybe it was needed. "What makes you say that?"

His boy glanced away. He shrugged. "I have a feeling."

"A feeling?"

"Uh huh. Usually when Sammy is in trouble, I get this gross feeling in my stomach," he rubbed his tummy, "But I don't feel it."

"Huh?" John pondered it. "I hope your right, because I would much rather have him not be with them."

"Plus I had a really weird dream with him in it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, but it was a long time ago. I guess when I was still in that icky hospital bed…But still."

"Uh huh, go on," John urged. Then Dean began to recount the dream he had of Sam being in the back of a van. John listened intently.

"I don't know. It was weird. And Sammy fought back…he fought off those guys, dad."

"Sammy fought them?"

"Yeah he did, but I helped him. I told him how to get out of the rope he was in…."

The more John listened, the more he didn't want to. He didn't want the image of his baby tied up and possibly having to defend himself. It terrified him.

Dean shook his head. "But it couldn't have been real. I'm hoping it wasn't real."

"Why?"

"Because he fell out of the moving van. It was going really fast. So I'm just hoping it was a nightmare."

"Shhh, it was," John soothed, praying to the all-mighty that it was. Because if it wasn't, then his hopes of finding his son became real slim. "It was just a nightmare. Go to sleep."

**And voila, a very light chapter. I had to give the suspense a break a bit. But the story will pick up again. And poor Dean, needless to say he did have an out of body experience and he remembered about Sammy in the car. Another kudos goes out to Criminally Charmed for figuring that one out way in the beginning. A lot of you have been asking if Dean will have a major role in this story, and I am pleased to say he will have the utmost important role in this story…mostly concerning a little brother. Take care, I'll see ya soon!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the delay folks, but I got caught up with work again. But I think you'll be happy to know this is extra lengthy and there is a bit of dark and lightness in this chappie…okay, a lot of lightness! Plus there's a bit of Greek mythology in here, Hannah style! Enjoy! **

The pain was only brief, but the humiliation lasts forever. A scowl worked its way on Jared's face as he laid on the ground inwardly cursing himself—well, more at the banana peel that sent him tumbling down the short flight of steps. If Hannah had seen him sprawled at the base of the paved walkway, he'd never hear the end of it. Thanking his lucky stars his wife was busy attending to the mess in the kitchen, he laggardly pulled himself up. Still grumbling about his little mishap, he snatched up the bag of trash and made his way over to the trashcan.

"Well…that must've been a show," he mumbled waving to the few neighbors outside either mowing their lawns or trimming their bushes.

A small ache festered, growing the further he walked. Tossing away the bag, he paused a moment to rub his backside. The pain was bearable once it managed to subdue, but that still hadn't laid off the heat rising in his cheeks. Next time he vowed to never overload the garbage, in case another banana peel or something similar happened to fall and he would tread on it. He was fairly certain his ass didn't want a round two.

A dent now marked in his dignity, Jared trudged back up the porch and into the house. Hannah was still busy cleaning, dancing and humming to her favorite tune. She waved and tossed the broom up in the air as though she were in a flag core. It was a risk of breaking any and everything inside the small space, but that's how she liked to clean. Jared was glad she only hummed, because if she had found her missing walkman (that he secretly hid) then the area would become more of a construction hazard zone. And he would have to fix and replace nearly everything…again.

Marching from the kitchen, Jared came around and plopped on the sofa resting his head back, grimacing at the small twinge from his backside. Twisting to the side onto his hip, he caught Sam on the other side staring at yet another book. Occasionally he saw the boy sneak a peek over the rim and stare at something across the room. Jared followed the traveling gaze and saw it rested upon a soccer ball planted in between the main bookshelf and the fireplace. Quickly he noticed Sam look back down as if he hadn't wanted his imminent desire exposed.

Feeling the need to bury his already brewing attitude over his embarrassing moment, he figured playing a little bit of his favorite sport would do that. And if a certain little boy wanted to, who better to play with? Sometimes he would ask his wife to play, but he learned his lesson quick. He truly did love his wife, but a bat would have better eye-foot coordination in the daytime.

"So Sam, whatcha reading this time?"

The child jerked, as though he were found out. "Oh…uh, a book I found in my bedroom."

"Is it good?"

Sam closed the cover. "Uh, yeah. But it has a lot of big words in it."

"Yeah, I've come across a few of those. Totally hate it when you have to look in the dictionary for every other word. Usually, I just throw it over my shoulder and call out 'next'," he said throwing a hand over his shoulder.

"Oh," Sam nodded, "Is that why there's a big mess of papers and books all over the floor in the other room across from mine?"

Jared paused, his smile faltering. He had totally forgotten to clean that mess up. But it wasn't like he could help it; tax season and the IRS can be a real pain in the patella. Phew, that was a long while back! "Yea. Pretty much…Sooo, do you want to read your book outside for a little bit, get some fresh air?"

The book instantly was put to the side. Sam's face beamed, his eyes hopeful. Then as though there was a switch involved, he bowed his head despondently. "I c-can't go outside. I'm not allowed."

That was unexpected. Jared bucked back in confusion. "Who said?"

Sam's head remained down, his hands twisting nervously in his lap. "No one. I just…just feel like I'm not allowed…to go outside."

A bemused expression kept permanently plastered to Jared's face. He scratched his head, trying the best way on how to respond…because it totally threw him for a loop. "What? Are you allergic to the sun or something? I'm sure it'll be fine. Do you want to go outside?"

Sam perked up, slightly hopping on the cushion. "Am I allowed? Can I?"

Surprised, Jared sat back. "Y-yeah little man, you can. No one's stopping you. And I also you see you staring at the soccer ball over there. Do you know how to play?"

When the child shook his head solemnly, Jared said, "Okay, okay. That's no big deal." He shakily stood up holding out his hand. "Come on. Why don't we take the ball and go to the park?"

Excitably Sam hopped up and grabbed his hand half-shouting in a litany. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

"No problem," Jared smiled, "I may not be what I used to be, but I think I can still kick a ball."

"That's okay, I've got a broken arm," Sam raised his left arm. "We'll just call ourselves the Kicking Wounded."

Sam's quip sent his foster parent into a full-blown laughing frenzy. Tears welled up and his face turned crimson as he picked up the soccer ball. Wiping the moisture off his left eye with his shoulder, Jared called out to his wife. "H-honey…ha ha…I'm taking Sam to the park. We'll be back soon."

"Okay," he heard her answer from behind the door, then suddenly a loud crash echoed followed by "Oh shish-kebabs!"

His laughing debut automatically ceased and he hung his head down at the sound of the shattering glass.

"Sorry honey, I'll fix it!" Hannah called.

He huffed shaking his head once more. "No ya won't," he muttered before hollering, "See ya later!"

-

The butcher knife came down with great speed. Instantly the victim was sliced in half, the two halves flopping down on its sides. The knife came down again and without remorse cut the two halves into quarter pieces. The roll of lettuce didn't stand a chance. The horror never stopped, only with it dying a swift death by being torn into pieces and placed inside a large bowl. The tomatoes quivered with fear as they were next.

Hannah worked laboriously in making dinner. After massacring the carrots, red peppers, and cucumbers, her tossed salad was beginning to take shape. She shook the bowl and flipped the contents, intent on mixing them well. At hearing a small humming, her attention was turned to Sam sitting at the bar table immersed yet again in another book. Looking up from chopping the tomatoes in halves, Hannah asked. "So did you have a great time at the park today, Sam?"

Sam's head shot up with a look of provocation. "Oh yeah! We had a lot of fun."

"Really? What'd you do?"

"We mainly played soccer. Mister Jared showed me how to kick the ball. And…and…and…he said you have to do it on the side of your foot, not the front because it hurts a _whole_ lot. And…and…not only that, but you have to keep it in front of you, so that you can keep your eye on it and watch the other players too and…"

Hannah gazed in aw at the little boy's excitement. He was speaking over a mile a minute it seemed. She wondered if he was saying it all in one breath.

"And then he showed me what position he played, and he kicked it to me. I kept missing it though…but not as much as he would miss it when I kicked it back to him. I felt bad, he kept limping a lot."

Hannah gasped for air, apparently unaware of the breath she was holding. It was like she was saving oxygen just for him. Though she was happy for the child's excitement, she couldn't help developing a certain feeling of sorrow for her husband. She sauntered over to his chair and pulled the boy into a hug from behind.

"I know. It's hard on him. Probably because it's so easy to over-exert himself, but he really misses it a lot. But…it was even better for him that he had someone to play with, get him back out there. Cuz Lord knows I can't hit a ball even if it's right in front of me. Knowing him, he appreciated it a lot!" She pecked Sam's cheek, then tickled his inside, snorting into his neck when he squirmed, forcing the child to laugh and squeal.

Hannah laughed still attached to the small body so that he wouldn't fall off the high-chair. Then a sweet smell permeated the air. She sniffed and sniffed, following the scent back to… Sam? She took another whiff. "Have you been in my lattes again?"

There was a little snicker before a short "I'm sorry." Sam turned in his seat. "I can't help it, I like the taste."

Hannah smiled ruffling his hair, "I know right?"

Suddenly there was a low rumble beneath their feet followed by a string of curses. Both Hannah and Sam gazed at each other in surprise, hearing the loud angry voice echoing from somewhere near the kitchen cabinets. "Ooh, that doesn't sound good. Hun, cover your ears."

As Sam did so, Hannah curiously strode back in following the storm of cursing. Searching near the bottom cabinets, she found the source of her husband's tirade echoing from a vent in the floor. It was apparent something had happened as tiny wisps of black smoke was seen rising from between the bars. "Hmmm, I don't think he knows the vent is connected to the basement. Figures…we haven't been in this house for very long."

Sam giggled as she tapped her foot and pursed her lips in trying to figure out what to say. "Uh Jared?" she yelled loudly into the vent. "JARED!"

The cursing stopped. "Hannah?"

"Everything okay down there?"

"Yeah, well…yeah, everything's fine. Just don't come down here for awhile," Jared called back, "Where're you calling from?"

"Look at the vent."

"The vent?"

"Yep. The vent."

A mumbling was all that echoed before "Oh I see it. You can hear me?"

"Uh huh. Every word."

"Oh," Jared said softly chuckling nervously, "Crap. Is Sam there with you?"

"Yep. He's at the table."

A loud clang sounded. "Oh shi—snicker doodles!"

Both Sam and Hannah laughed. "Close one there babe!"

"Hey while I gotcha on speaker-vent, is dinner almost ready?" Jared's voice echoed out.

"Almost," Hannah replied.

"Good. I'll be up in a few. Just gotta clean up down here first."

"You get right on that," she stepped away coming back to the chopping board. "Ha, that was funny. For a second there I thought I was hearing Zues's voice and any minute he'd be sending a lightning bolt at my as—tush."

Sam uncovered his ears. "Mrs. Hannah, what's Mister Jared doing down there?"

"Uh I don't know. I think he's trying to rebuild the carburetor," his foster mom answered.

Sam donned a peculiar look. "What's a car-bator?"

Hannah snorted at the mispronunciation of the term. "Um…actually, I don't know. Some new car part he's been raving about. Couldn't really tell ya what it does cuz that stuff goes way over my head," she made a swishing noise throwing a knife-free hand over her head. "So as long as he knows what he's doing, I'm good to go. Seriously, I wouldn't know what to do without my husband."

Sam turned back to his book. He flipped another page of the colossal-sized tome he was currently into. Catching a few snippets about Greek Mythology from earlier, he became confused at a particular part, his inner geek failing to interpret. Only when Hannah mentioned the god Zues, it sparked his interest. Swinging his legs to and fro, he gazed at Hannah innocently, ready to ask a question. "Mrs. Hannah, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure hun. Fire away…depending on if I know the answer to the question, of course."

Sam hesitated, thinking of a way to ask. "Um…did Zues have a family?"

Pausing in her work of slaughtering the chicken into strips, Hannah looked up. Part of her lip curled into a smirk; possibly from understanding why exactly Sam would ask such a question. And she was more than glad to answer; Greek Mythology was possibly her favorite subject.

"Sure did. All I can really tell ya is he had a father and a mother and had six brothers and sisters."

"Six?" Sam exclaimed open-mouthed.

"Hmmm hymph. His parents were busy! His mother was Rhea and his father was Cro…" she cocked her head to the side, "Cronus? Yeah."

"Cro...nus?"

"Yep…uh if memory serves me correctly he was the sky and Rhea was the Earth. But in the beginning—as one of the tales go—Cronus found out about a prophecy of one of his sons rising against him. And of course with all tyrants, he couldn't let that happen…So you know what he did to his kids?"

"What?"

"He ate them."

"He ate them!" Sam shrieked, clearly disgusted.

Hannah nodded slicing more of the chicken. "Yippie skippy, gobble gobble," she placed the chicken slices into the large bowl, "Ate em' all up. Poseidon, Hestia, Demeter Hera…"

"Even Hades?"

"Even Hades. All of them, except for Zues."

"Why?"

"Eh," she shrugged, "Apparently his mother grew a backbone at the last minute and wanted to save Zues when he was a baby. So she deceived Cronus…or Saturn in the Roman verse, switching the baby with a thing of stone, thanks to the help of Ge and Uranus."

Sam shrunk into himself sniggering, "Uranus."

Hannah shot him an odd glance before continuing. "Anyway, so while Daddio was busy snacking on the decoy, Rhea had Ge raise Zues on an island. Crete, I think? Little did big Ol' Saturn know what his wife did, but later on when Zues grew up, he came back, beat the dog snot out of him and took his throne. Made him upchuck his brothers and sisters—"

Sam's upper lip curled. "Upchuck…like," he imitated vomiting.

"You got it!"

"Yuk…but I thought Zues married Hera?"

"He did."

"So he married throw up…eww," Sam cringed.

"Hahaha, exactly…but she shapened up after awhile."

As much as he loved the version of the story, Sam was still stumped on one thing. "But I thought he had a lot of wives?"

"Nope, just the one," she corrected. "I mean he had many affairs, meaning he messed around with other women."

"So if he liked a lot of women, then why didn't Hera kick him out of the house like any other wife would?"

"Hmmm, good point. But I don't think she could. See Zues was the all mighty powerful. Would _you_ want to take on that and boot him out?"

"No."

"Right. But Hera had her own way of getting back and she was just as conniving and powerful. Instead of going after her husband, she just went after the women he…uh, he uh, did it…with."

"Oh. So is that what happened to Calypso? She did something with Zues and next thing she knows she turned into a bear. And then something happened, I forget, and she became the Big Dipper in the sky."

Hannah appeared starstruck. "Dang."

Excited that he managed to dazzle Hannah with the knowledge he ascertained, Sam went on. He felt like he had just been given permission to have the whole candy store to himself. "And then there were the three brothers, right? Zues took over Heaven. Hades took over the underworld. And Posodo—"

"Poseidon," Hannah corrected.

"Yeah that guy, took over the sea."

"You got it honey."

"Yep and Poseidy—"

"Poseidon."

"Uh huh, he married Cleito and made the island of Atlantis," he smiled at his brilliance.

"That's right?" Amazed, Hannah blurted, "Wow, you're really precocious aren't you?"

Sam stared at her, his eyebrows forming a deep 'v'. "What's that mean?"

"Uh… It just means you're well beyond your years."

"Oh, okay…Um, what does that mean?"

Hannah chuckled, "It just means you're really smart."

"Oh! Thank you I guess," he blushed.

Wiping the slime off her hands on the back of her jeans, she picked up the large salad bowl and brought it over to the dining table. Catching sight of the large Mythology textbook, she asked, "Is that where you learned that from?"

Sam sent her a look of pure innocence nodding his head.

Walking back over to get the bread, she said. "Man, you really must like to read if you're reading from that dusty old thing?"

"I love to read."

"Oh good. Did you use to read a lot before?"

"I guess," Sam shrugged.

"Well in that case, I have a whole box full of books up in the attic. If you want, I can get those and you can take a look at them. It's mostly a lot of old books like Charlotte's Web and Treasure Island. A lot of stuff like that."

"Really!" His eyes beamed like fireworks. Hannah had never seen him so excited before. "Yep, but dinner first."

"Okay," he replied hopping off his stool and heading towards the main dining table.

Minutes later, the basement door opened and out came a grease-covered Jared. Sam couldn't help but stare, as well as Hannah. He was covered head to toe in black stains, including his face and hair. There wasn't a clean spot on his body. He probably could've passed as another person if it weren't for his green eyes and bad leg.

"Hey honey?" Hannah called out wide-eyed. "Car part fixed?"

Jared puckered his lips. "Maybe," he said passing by her, leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek. She quickly dodged the intended soot-covered smooch, but yelped as he grabbed a certain part of her anatomy. "Jared! You…" she began to scold, "Go get cleaned up."

She brought over to the table the loaf of baked bread and set it neatly by the salad. "Oh yeah, plates and silverware," she muttered to herself heading back. Sam looked after her and tried hard to stifle a laugh at the large black handprint on the back pocket of her jeans.

At that moment, it was difficult to comprehend the type of feeling that rained upon him. "Family," he whispered. For the first time Sam had thought about it, he couldn't recall ever being this happy. In a way, it was like the void, the small chuck missing in his heart was filling up. No matter how determined he was, there was no way he could smack the smile off his face. It was like it was permanently carved there.

--

John pulled the Impala up beside a large redwood. He overlooked the scene approving of the grove of trees encircling around him. A cliff's edge loomed a few yards away, housing breath-taking scenery of mountainous terrain. Any more beautiful, the scarp would have been labeled as 'picture-perfect'. It seemed like a quiet and secluded spot in backwoods country, coveted for unwanted interruptions.

Sighing in his seat, he stole a glance at his sleeping son, resting peacefully against the passenger door. He patted his head softly, pulling his leather jacket over the scrawny shoulders. The white device visible from the inside of Dean's ear shown like a beacon and it only sparked an unmitigated sense of anger, his insides twisting unpleasantly. It stood as a reminder of what he came to do. After concluding his son was comfortable, John turned off the engine and exited the vehicle. His other friends Bobby and Caleb sat on the hood of Caleb's mustang. Tiredly he joined them, also appreciating their grizzled appearances and haggard expressions. It wasn't far off from his own.

He took a deep breath. "Hey Bobby? Caleb?"

"John?" Bobby nodded.

"Where's Dean?" Caleb asked, expecting to see the little tag-along.

"Sleeping," John pointed at the beloved vehicle, "In shotgun."

"How's he doing?"

John rubbed his eyes as well as his five o' clock shadow. "Exhausted. Been having trouble with the new hearing aid. It makes him dizzy and without his crutches now, he still is having a hard time trying to maintain his balance. The doc said it'll take a while to get used to. But it just upsets him all the more."

"Sorry to hear that Johnny," Bobby pitied. "But he's a tough young boy. He'll come through."

John nodded his head in agreement. "I know he will. He hasn't stopped yet. But he's got a long way to go…Alright, anything from our friends?"

"Little bit. Many of them, including Bob Harvelle now, are starting to search warehouses, run-down shacks…the like. Jim said that mostly the direction he could figure, the bastards kept circling around north Montana," Bobby briefed.

"We've also got information on Scrieber," Caleb answered picking up a large folder. "As you know with my contact, there is no one better. It took awhile, but he managed to get some juicy details…" he opened it, pulling out a county-jail mug-shot of the man. John took it and studied the photo, instantly logging the man's facial features into his databank.

"Turns out this guy was practically a nobody," Caleb went on, "Had a bad childhood…typical with his father a classic drunk and his mom the town's main whore. The guy grew up unhinged. His criminal record started at the age of thirteen when he smashed in a teacher's car window and now I want to say is as long as my arm, no joke. Had a lot of assault and batteries, breaking and entering…yada yada yada," he handed John the papers as he read off them. "There isn't much about him except that he's your typical sociopath."

John looked up from the paperwork. "What about now? Does anyone know anybody he talked to recently?"

It was Bobby's turn to cut in. "We've been around to a lot of people. Guy doesn't have any living relatives at this point, either that or they refuse to say their related. But nothing's turned up yet."

Bobby's information sent a surge of impatience welling up with John. It may have been his irritation or exhaustion that fueled the attitude. But all he knew at that point was they were no more closer in tracking and locating Sammy than they had a month ago. "Come on guys, it's been three and a half months. We gotta do better than this," he yammered, "It's not like these guys fell off the face of the earth. They've got to be around here somewhere."

Bobby huffed. "John, we're doing the best we can. And I know it seems odd, but it's like the guy doesn't exist anymore. You heard what that guy said over a month ago. He left town without any warning or telling anybody who he was with. With that kind of trail, it's gonna take time."

"He's right John," Caleb spoke up, taking the papers from John's outstretched hand and placing them neatly back into the folder, "We want to find Sammy too, but with our resources, there's not much else to do."

The deadly sense of rage began to uncoil like a cobra. John gritted his teeth. "This…that's not good enough! We have to do better!"

"Then what do you want us to do Johnny, huh?" Caleb defended, "Because right now, my hands are tied."

"I don't know…do something! Put up missing posters if you have to. I don't care what it takes. If we have to knock on every door in all fifty states, then so be it. I'll do whatever I have to, to get my son back and filet those bastards to an inch of their life!" he yelled, dismissing the look of hurt in his fellow friend's eyes.

Bobby hopped off the hood, his hands spread in defense. "Okay John we get the point. No need to get riled up now. You'll need that for later…but for right now—" the ringing in his vest pocket sounded. Immediately Bobby fished it out and answered it. "Hello?"

A look of recognition and relief replaced the sullen tired look. "Hey Jim. You find anything…what?"

John and Caleb couldn't hear the other end, but from the look of trepidation Bobby donned, they figured the news couldn't have been good.

"Alright thanks Jim. We're on our way," the grizzled man said before shutting off the phone. He turned back to the group and said feebly. "One of the missing kids has just turned up. In a place not too far from here. They're at a hospital and according to Jim, it's not pretty."

"How'd he find this out?"

"A friend of his called. Says he's been listening to his police scanner and he heard the message about six hours ago. Jim's already there and is waiting on us. If we go now, we can get there within the hour," Bobby said, already heading towards his Chevelle.

The other two hunters gave each other a shrug and a nod, immediately setting out for their vehicles. By the time John jogged to the Impala, Caleb had his Mustang roaring to life and waiting on Bobby to lead the way. Within minutes, the three vehicles raced down the long dirt road.

Bobby was right. It had only taken them a short while to get to the Sandrover Medical Sinai in mid-state Oregon. Following Jim's advice, the trio pulled out their best cheap suits and posed as Fed's for this trip's subterfuge. Jim alerted them to follow the main hallway to the elevator shaft that led to the fourth floor. By the time they arrived, there was a lot of commotion circulating on that particular hallway. Many staff members bustled about, hurdling towards a specific room, apparently eager to see something. Hospital security hung about in trying to force back the curious onlookers. And there was police and medical persona galore.

The hunters each forced their way through and spotted Jim in his pastor suit, who waved. Without saying a word, Jim pointed a finger through the glass pane. Curious, the three hunters peered inside and each froze in shock, fixed with horror.

**Ooh, wonder what it is they saw. Stay tuned to find out in the next chappie. An incredible thank you goes out to Monkeymuse for the idea about Dean's hearing device and for all her insight on the deaf matter. Thanks doll, you're a blessing! Also, the mythology section is one version I borrowed from my Mythology textbook by Mark Morton and Robert Lenardon. I had to put it in there, it's a great read! **


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey there guys! Warning: there is a lot of dark material in this chapter. I warn you now to prepare yourselves. Keep in mind this is fiction, not based on true events, thank God! And again a lot of thanks goes out to Monkeymuse for the info and support regarding Dean! Now it's time to find out what John and the others saw. **

John stood transfixed, unable to fully interpret what he was witnessing. The child or what resembled a child sat hunched on a bed. Dark blank eyes contrasted against snow white skin. The top of his or her head was ashen as though all the hair was burnt off. Mottled bruises stood out all over frail arms and neck. But that wasn't the disturbing part. Littered all over the child's face, arms, and head were carvings. Raw puffy marks etched into the skin. Sigils. Possibly demonic sighs of sacrifice. To the locals it appeared like devil worshipping, but the hunters knew better. The signs confirmed it was indeed demon activity. As for what purpose…they were completely confounded.

"That's a little girl?" Bobby gasped, clasping a calloused hand over his mouth.

"Yes," Jim stepped behind him, "An old couple found her about seven or eight hours ago in a ditch. If it weren't for her blinking, they probably would have thought she was dead. She hasn't said anything, made no movement or nothing. Totally unresponsive to any stimuli."

"The child hasn't said a word?" Caleb asked.

"No," Jim shook his head, "It's like the girl's mental capacity was completely wiped out."

"What's her name?"

"Uh, Cynthia Callon, I think? I turned up and was available, and did a blessing. It wasn't much, but a little bit of hope won't hurt."

Still in shock, John looked to the morose man and trembling woman in tears off in the corner. He surmised they had to be the parents. What possibly could be going through their heads, he didn't want to know. This had to be more devastating than losing their house to a fire. And it angered him all the more that the child, a carbon copy of her beautiful mother, will never be the same.

He was so immersed in his thoughts, he hadn't caught on to what Jim was saying. "So far the authorities had set out disbanding all cults and possible suspecting societies in the county. It'll be state-wide soon."

Without another thought, John marched determinedly into the room. The main doctor sitting on the bed attempting to establish some form of communication with the child turned around angrily, demanding that he leave. John ignored the man by pushing him out of the way and taking a seat on the bed. The others came in too. Bobby raised a hand indicating to the father, who rushed forward, to stand down. Everyone else in the room stood paralyzed.

Taking out a trinket in the shape of a pentagram, John waved the sign in front of the girl's eyes. Immediately there was a reaction. The girl bucked back, quivering with fear, scrambling back as far away from the trinket as possible. Quickly John put it away while the child's mother rushed forward and cuddled to her daughter. And as fast as the amulet was stowed away, the child went back into a mindless state.

John took that as his cue to leave, disregarding all the angry sneers and curious glares. Once out of proximity of the group, he took off at a sprint for the outside. He needed some fresh air…and fast.

The group rejoined him a few minutes later in the front entrance, all worse for wear.

Jim hadn't really wanted to, but it was now or never to deliver the ultimate worst news. "I don't know if this child escaped or was dropped off. All I know is this won't stay quiet for long. Soon this news will be nation-wide and then our chances of finding Sam and the other kids are practically nil."

Bobby remained silent taking a seat on the tarmac, not at all appreciating the news.

"Shit!" John called out loud, disturbing a group of birds out of a nearby tree.

"I'm sorry Johnny. But this may have been planned. And if that's the case, we may need to wait for our next sign. I hate this just as much as you do."

A silent curse was heard and all three turned to Bobby who sat shaking with rage. A look of fury emanated from his eyes, like a caged tiger ready to be set loose. Caleb immediately came over and picked the old man up. The beastly man's eyes flashed and Caleb knew he was meddling in deep ca-ca. "Don't do this Bobby. I can see you're upset as we all are. But do something. Don't just sit here. Get your hands busy, a hobby maybe. Do it before you hurt somebody."

His request was answered by the mechanic giving him a harsh shove and stomping over to his car. Jim and Caleb shared nervous glances. Now they had two irate men to worry about. Caleb was more concerned for Bobby. He was unsure if he had a family or not. The man always pressed for silence on that one. But he could see through the man's subtleness that he had a soft spot for kids…and if his attitude wasn't a good marker, then what was? If what they saw was happening to the other kids, then good luck bad guys. Because once you're on Bobby Singer's hit list, you're as good as dead.

Still numb, John strode back to the Impala and sluggishly hopped in. Dean stared at him curiously, wondering whatever had all the hunters so wound up. He stayed quiet waiting on his father. It came as a bigger surprise when John motioned for him to come closer, pulling him into a huge embrace. He held onto his brother's teddy that he kept with him at all times for support. From his father's silence and heavy expression, he knew something was wrong.

The image of the mindless tortured child still burned in John's mind. Staring blankly ahead, he breathed in the coconut scent off his son's hair.

"Dad?"

John continued to breathe deeply.

Dean's voice shook. "Dad? What's going on?"

It took another long moment before John could finally speak. "…You said…you said you'd know…you'd feel it"—his breath hitched—"you'd feel something if Sammy was hurt or if some thing was wrong, right?"

Dean's own fear and guilt tripled at hearing the devastation in his father's voice. He nodded for reassurance, confident in his ability.

"That dream you said you had—do you know if it's real?"

Dean trembled clutching the teddy closer. "Dad you're scaring me."

John pulled his child closer, now cradling the teddy in his grip. The soft feel of the plush only made him realize what he had lost…and could possibly never find. "Just…was it real?"

"I don't know," a salty tear made its way down Dean's pale cheek. The father fell silent mustering whatever sanity he had left. Now was not the time to completely lose it. But as this seemingly perpetual quest continued, he could feel he was slowly coming to the end of his rope. It was only a matter of time before it finally snapped. Soon both held in each other's arm fell into an exhaustive sleep in Impala.

Caleb came over and saw the two in the car. Not apt to bother them, he made his way back to his vehicle.

"Caleb, where're you going?" Jim asked.

"To go do something Pastor. I gotta do something." With that, he drove off leaving the stunned pastor in his wake of dust.

-

_Two days later:_

To say the man had officially gone insane was a major understatement. John traveled up and down, all around, non-stop in search. He had been to every legit fortune teller, whatever hunter congregate, or any outlandish bar in the state of Oregon that would possibly have information on the morons. Since the hospital incident, an inner turmoil ravished, totally resolute that his son will not share the same fate. He wasn't quite sure if his other son was up to par on this much traveling, and he didn't ask. There was no time to ask.

Then…

Halfway through Severence County, he received a call from Jim that confirmed his fears. According to one of Jim's contacts in somewhere upstate Washington, another child was found… and it fit Sam's description. The other hunters hadn't arrived there yet, so there was no one to confirm. Breaking any and all speed records, John arrived at the indicated destination.

Bobby and Jim pulled up a few minutes later. Ordering his son to stay in the car, he hastily joined them, shaking all over. The icy clutches of despair was already upon him and if the child was indeed his baby boy, he would surely let them take him.

"You okay John?" Jim asked noticing the stark pallor.

He shook his head. "No. But I gotta know…Where's Caleb?" he asked looking around.

"He's putting up missing posters as we speak. Covered every county in lower Oregon and upper California so far," Bobby answered.

John huffed, realizing that it really did come down to drastic matters. "Great!"

The loud sound of grating metal reached their ears and they all turned to see Dean hobble out from around the car. He was slow, but determined.

The hunters looked at him with pride. John looked annoyed. "Dean, I told you to stay in the car. Go back now. I don't want you to see this."

His son didn't acknowledge him. He kept limping in their direction as though he didn't hear. John's anger reared its ugly head. "Dean! I said no. What are you deaf? Go back!" he bellowed, but then regretted it once he saw the betrayed and devastated look on his child's face. Both Jim and Bobby's mouths fell agape, utterly aghast at the harsh words. John's own mouth dropped guilty over what he had done. "Ah shit Dean. I'm sorry."

It had no effect as Dean somberly turned around. With his balance still off-center due to the loss of his hearing in his one ear, he lost his footing in the turn and plummeted to the ground. John immediately sprung into action at hearing the soft cry.

Running over to his child, he pulled him into a sitting position. "Hey take it easy."

"Yes sir," Dean grounded out, turning away to conceal the building emotion.

"Dean," John patted his back, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. It's just... I'm not in one of the best moods right now."

"I know, and neither am I. But I want to see Sammy," Dean protested.

"We don't know if it is Sammy in there. And even if it is I don't want you to see it. I don't want you to bear that burden, okay? Not yet. So please, please listen to me on this. I need you to stay in the car."

Dean's glistening eyes kept on his. He could tell Dean was having a hard time in taming his stubbornness. He always ordered him to do things, forced him by military discipline. But never had he asked nicely. He supposed it was a nice change. Dean then nodded, raising an arm motioning for help. John quickly obliged and helped him back to the car.

"Now stay. And don't forget to take your medicine," he told him rendezvousing back to the hunters. "Ready."

Bobby and Jim, now over their temporary hate for the man, agreed and filed in line. Each one was brimming with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. It could all be over today. They could have finally found the missing Winchester. But deep down, they prayed it wasn't. No child should ever have to deal with this miserable fate.

They hadn't bothered in establishing aliases, they were more curious as to the newfound kid's identity. Avoiding hospice security, they made a beeline toward the commotion.

John's hands shook more violently the closer he came to the ward. Every part of his insides screamed at him to stop. He didn't want to know. But he had to. His instincts came alive, alerting him to the fact it wasn't Sam. But that could've been doubt talking. The closer he approached it seemed like everything inside him was screaming. But he had to know. He had to confirm it wasn't Sam. He prayed it wasn't.

Finally he reached the door. There was only a small rectangle pane implanted in the wooden frame. Pushing a nurse to the side, he needed to get a better look. Suddenly he hesitated glimpsing the floor. He found it better to admire the swirly decorative patterns than look.

"John. Is it him?" Bobby asked.

John sighed. There wasn't any other choice left. He peeked into the window. Then suddenly his heart sagged…in relief. It wasn't Sam. Only a little boy that looked vaguely familiar to his beautiful boy. The same markings covered his body and he mimicked the girl's behavior by staring absent-mindedly ahead.

He stepped away throwing his head into a hand. Shaking his head he answered Bobby and Jim, "No, it's not him."

Both men blew out held breaths, dribbling their lips. "We'll keep trying. Don't get too worked up, we'll find him. I have faith," Jim said placing a hand on John's shoulder.

But John was too despondent in believing the man. "No we won't. It's only a matter of time before he turns up like this. God…I can't…just…we won't find him. What if...what if Sammy's lost for good?" he cried out pitifully. The last remaining strings of hope he had fluttered away with the air conditioners chilly draft.

-

_A couple weeks later._

Hannah and a group of colleagues exited the town's main coffee shop laughing each with large half-café vanilla lattes. Eager to do some shopping, the group walked hastily down the street. Stopping by a small antique shop, the girls peered inside, acting giddy about some of the nautical equipment set on the display case.

"Come on. My hubby likes anchors. Why, I haven't a clue. But I need to find him something for our anniversary," one of the girls said.

"Okay," another agreed.

"Hannah, you coming?"

"Uh sure," she replied lumbering behind her friends, until the sound of flapping caught her attention. The flapping belonged to a yellow placard tacked to a street-post. Noticing the black and white pictorial with the lettering 'Missing' printed boldly at the top, Hannah approached it. Her mouth fell agape and she snatched it off, staring in shock at the picture on it.

"Hannah. You coming?" a friend called out from the door.

Snapping out of her numbness, Hannah gurgled out, "Uh, girls. We need to do this another time."

Without an explanation, she took off at a run to her car, racing home. Rushing up the porch, she barged through the door with a loud clang. Both Jared and Sam jerked at the startling noise. Hannah hurried over to the couch. "Jared I gotta talk to you."

"Everything okay?"

"Now," she turned away taking off up the stairs at a brisk pace.

Intrigued and mostly alarmed, Jared placed his _Truck_ magazine to the side. Sam stirred on the floor, clumping his crayons up in his palm. "No Sam. Keep coloring."

Heading up the stairs as fast as his favored gait would allow, he entered his bedroom to find his wife slightly shaking on their bed. "Hannah, what's going on?"

"Take a look at this," she extended out the crumpled yellow poster. Taking a gander at the black and white photo, Jared's face fell. It was Sam. "Oh no."

Hannah's strained eyes met up with his. "What do we do? I don't wanna...not yet," tears formed at the brim of her lids. "I'm not sure if I really want to call."

Jared pinched the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes shut. In a long line of desirable hopes, this was one he hadn't wished to occur. He took a deep breath. "I don't want to either. But…you and I both know it's the right thing to do."

"But what if his family is the reason for all this? I mean, what if they were the ones to have done this to him?" Hannah bit her lip. It was evident this was sudden predicament was very hard for her.

"We don't know that for sure," Jared countered, "I mean we still don't know what happened. And we've talked to everyone we know, and no kid, other than a little girl in San Francisco, has been reported missing in this entire state."

"Until now," Hannah pointed at the poster.

Jared scratched his head, "Yeah."

"But now? It's been nearly fourth months and _now_ these people decide that's he missing and wants him back?" she stared wide-eyed, "Something's not right here Jared."

"I know. I find it odd too. But if this is true and they do want him back, then sooner or later they're going to find him. And if we don't call, what do you think is going to happen then?"

Hannah glanced away, clenching her fist. "I know. It wouldn't be in our favor and we would still lose him. And that was the agreement wasn't it? If we find his family, we have to give him up." Jared didn't respond, silently agreeing she was right. "I really… don't know what to do Jared."

"Me neither," he answered taking a seat on the bed, "But my gut is telling me we have to."

"Mine too," she sniffed. "But what if..."

"You have a good sense of judgment," Jared interrupted, "If we call, then I guess we can talk to them, figure out their deal. I mean they can't take him right away, he's still lawfully ours."

His wife wiped away her tears, bopping her head up and down. "You're right. You're always right. We'll call and judge them. Yeah?"

"Yeah. Do you want me to call?"

"But what if he's not ready? What if he doesn't recognize them?"

"That's up to him. We won't know unless we try. He deserves to have his real family back. If they are alive and that's them," he pointed to the sheet, "it wouldn't fair to keep him from them."

Hannah glared. "I hate it when you're right."

"That's why I'm here."

"I mean, can't we just throw out the rule book for once?"

"No."

Hannah let out a long sigh. "God, why are you so stubborn? Alright let's call."

"You want me to?"

"No, I...I'll do it."

Jared handed her the landline phone from off their dresser. She hesitantly bobbed it up and down, biting her lip. If this was hard, how hard was it really going to be once he finally had to go? Jared wrapped an arm around her shoulders for support. Taking a deep breath she dialed the number, quickly placing it over her ear. It rang and rang and rang before finally heading straight to voicemail. "This is John Winchester. Leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as I can."

Hannah was slightly taken aback with how abrupt the voice sounded on the recording. It was even more daunting realizing she might have to meet this man. "Uh. Mr. Winchester," she began slowly, "This is Hannah Winslow. I think I have your son."

**Dun dun dun! The Winslow's finally managed to strike up the courage to call. Funny about the means they found out. Now it's a matter of what John will do once he gets the message! Plus I do hope that the gruesomeness at the beginning of this chapter hasn't offended anyone. If it has, I apologize. I don't intend for harmful things to happen for children, and I pray to God that it won't…but I do believe in comeuppance. And these bastards shall see to it! But that is not the moral of this story. I hope that clarifies up some! **


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey everybody! Here it is! The moment ya'll been waiting for. The chapter is really short, but I hope all the more dramatic! Hope it's to your satisfaction. **

"Where the hell is my son?" John bellowed at the top of his lungs, barging into the large suburban home.

John was beyond furious as Hell. He had been in a sour mood since the moment he checked his voicemail that morning and received the Winslow's message revealing to him they have his son. He didn't bother to call back as that very moment had him and his eldest son flying at the speed of light towards the address left over the phone. The anger welling inside him simmered and boiled along the way across the entire length of both states.

It had been nearly four months and now these people decide to call. They didn't sound like the bastards that stole him away, but it was possible they were in ties with them. More than likely that was the case. Every part of him wanted to throw the human handbook out the window and torture and slaughter these people. Many scenarios flashed in and out of his head thinking what has become of his son; what these people might have done to him. Why else would they have waited this long to call? He had no idea what to expect when he pulled up to the classy suburban home.

Wrenching the door open, and ordering his eldest to stay in the car, he stormed up the steps and barged into the house. "Where the hell is my son?" he yelled again.

Startled, Jared bounded up to the main entrance of the house, weary of the sudden intruder.

John caught sight of the man first and stomped up towards him. "Where is he? Where's Sam, you son of a bitch?"

"Whoa sir! Calm down," Jared ordered raising his hands.

"Don't tell me to calm down, you piece of shit," he swung at him, intending on maiming the fellow.

But the guy was equally swift as John was strong. Jared dodged the punch, coming up behind the man, and locking his arms underneath his armpits. "Get the hell off me," John snarled.

"Not until you calm down," Jared spat.

John struggled with the man, trying to wrench free of the brute. Finally Jared, using his military tactics, slipped his foot beneath John's and caused him to lose his balance, quickly knocking him to the ground and pinning him in place. The giant man continued to struggle, squirming and bouncing, but it was no use. Jared had him well pinned.

Hannah came running out from the kitchen door. "What the hell is going on?"

"Where's my brother?" a child's demanding voice called out.

Her attention was turned towards the door to see a partially bandaged child waltz through.

"Where's Sam?"

"Dean. I told you wait in the car," John yelled from the floor.

"Dad! Get off him you sonuvabitch!" He ran at Jared, with his hand on his backpack, struggling to get it open.

"Stop. Stop. Stop," Hannah ran forward keeping the child from charging at her husband.

"Get out of the way lady. Give me my brother!"

"Stop. JUST EVERYBODY STOP," she screamed. Her voice produced a mighty rebounding echo that if it was any higher it could've leveled the house to the ground.

Finally, everyone stilled.

Panting, she ordered. "Jared let him up." Jared did so, backing away coming to the side of his wife.

John got up gripping his wrist. "Where's my son?" he demanded.

"Sam's safe. He's sleeping right now. And if you don't keep your damn voices down, you're going to wake him up," she answered sternly, her chocolate orbs blazing.

"We haven't done anything to your son, sir. He's fine," Jared added for good measure, standing by his wife protectively.

"They could be lying Dad. This could all be a trick," Dean voiced, eyeing the two strangers suspiciously.

"Dean, I told you to go wait in the car. I'll handle this."

"Wait, you're name's Dean?" Hannah piped up, interested.

"Yeah?"

She turned to Jared. "Jared, remember the name he was saying when we found him. He kept saying 'Dean, Dean' over and over again." She raised her eyebrows, "It makes sense. This might really be them. Wait, I think I know..." she trailed off stepping over to the slightly leaning child.

John took a step forward threateningly.

Aware of the father's protective stance, Hannah raised her hands up in a defensive manner, "I'm not going to hurt him sir. I just need to see something, a visible form of confirmation."

When the man made no move, she slowly approached, gently grasping the child's head. Tilting it to the side, she found a long edge scar visible beneath his short hair.

Perplexed, the pre-teen just stared in bewilderment at the woman.

Hannah released him and faced her husband. "Remember what he said," she turned back to the two Winchesters, "Sam was having several nightmares about you. He said he kept seeing a boy with a long cut along the side of his head, and he was in a bathroom bleeding."

The little boy in front of her gasped. "I was left…on the bathroom floor in our house when the men came in. And I was bleeding."

That was it. All the proof the Winslow's needed to know that the slightly psychotic man and injured boy standing before them in their living room was their foster child's long-lost family.

"Oh my God," Hannah muttered backing away.

John, getting a hint that something was amiss, asked, "Who are you people?"

"As I said on the phone, we are the Winslow's. I'm Hannah and this is Jared. We've had Sam for quite awhile. We found a missing child's poster in town yesterday afternoon. And the first thing we did was call."

"I want to see my son."

"Of course," she nodded, "But there's something you have to know first. Sam has amnesia."

"WHAT?" both Winchester yelled in unison.

"Yes, otherwise we would have called sooner."

"Sammy," Dean mewled, hardly able to get over his shock. He glanced up at his father, recognizing John was in the same boat as he.

"How bad?"

"Pretty bad. He couldn't remember his last name. And it appears he can't remember any of his previous life. He was pretty tore up when we found him," Jared informed.

"What do you mean when you found him?"

"We were driving and..." Jared was cut off by the sound of screaming sounding from the upstairs.

Immediately everyone raced towards the stairs with Hannah in the lead. She ran down the small hallway and burst through the door first finding Sam to be in the midst of one of his chilling nightmares. Rushing over to the bed, Hannah picked up the squirming boy by his shoulders and began to coddle him, arousing him from sleep.

John ran into the room and froze at the seeing the pair. His frail heart thumped rapidly. Indeed it was Sam, his little boy, the seemingly kind woman was holding onto. He found him. After all this time and worry, he finally had found his baby. And he was alright. He wasn't emaciated, or brainwashed, or even remotely mindless. He was fine—and safe! Dean had finally caught up and stood by his side, also mesmerized at the sight.

The upset child wouldn't look up as he held onto Hannah. It was evident that he was too discombobulated to notice anything. "Mama," Sam cried feebly, "I'm scared, Mama."

Both father and brother stood there, paralyzed, hardly able to believe what their ears just interpreted. John's jaw dropped. The once strong stoic diamond-in-the-rough heart the ex-marine believed he had now began to chip and fray, like it was made of glass. His body began to sway, and he stepped to regain his stance, the floorboard creaking beneath his feet.

At hearing the creaking, Sam looked up and gasped, clinging onto Hannah harder when he saw the other two figures. "Shhh, it's okay," Hannah cooed.

At that, the crystalline glass shattered and now John felt like a mortal man. Tears welled at the brim of his lids, forcing him to shut them tightly in order to conceal his emotion.

Dean had to bite his tongue keeping him from saying something he might regret. His brother, his one and only responsibility, the one person he could always rely on to look up to him—treat him as the hero— now saw him as another face. He was a stranger in his brother's eyes, and it hurt. He knew his brother had lost his memory, but it hadn't fully hit him yet as it did in that moment. And he was afraid to say how much it hurt, because it was the worst pain he had ever felt.

Hannah appeared abashed, not knowing what to do or say, and softly whispered to the boy, "They're good people. They're just here to see if you're okay. They're not going to hurt you...Jared."

Jared understood immediately why his wife called his name. Gently placing a hand on the father's shoulder, he jerked his head at the door inviting him to head downstairs. John numbly accepted and grabbed his eldest. As the tall lug was leading them away, they overheard, "I'm here. No monster is going to get you now."

**Good grief, poor John and Dean. I told ya I was depressing, but at least John had finally found his baby boy. Well, now that Sam doesn't remember, you can bet that will stoke the fire that is Papa Winchester's fury. Stay tuned to find out what happens next and what action he will take from now on. And don't worry, you'll see more action and horror in no time!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hey Guys, here's another update. I'm trying to do this as fast as I can, especially today before I leave for work. But know that if I don't get to answer your reviews today, I will in the near future. Sorry for the shortness of the last chapter. But I hope it was just as dramatic. Gear up for this one, as John needs to make a decision. And Dean is none the wiser! Thanks, you're the best!!!!**

John couldn't move. He couldn't think. All sense and sensibility was thrown out the window. If it weren't for the young man leading him away, he was sure he might have remained still as a statue. The shock coursing through his body over the matter of his baby completely unrecognizing him acted like hardened cement weighing him down. With his hand still attached to his eldest's shoulder, he lumbered away down the stairs.

The young man, they knew to be Jared, courteously led them to a kitchen. His eyes stayed in front of him, non-blinking, with his mouth tightly shut.

Jared emphasized guiding the two quiet people ahead. "I can't understand what you must be going through right now. But he struggles with nightmares on a constant basis. Some of them have kept him up for days at a time. They've gotten better over the months and we've done what we can."

There was no response, just blank stares. Jared took the hint and led the two speechless Winchesters away towards the bar-table. "Here, this is obviously a lot to take in. Why don't I make you a cup of coffee? Dean, would you like some hot chocolate?"

The boy slowly nodded his head, following his father. John, too dispirited to speak, slowly nodded and allowed the young man to guide him to one of the high-chairs, where he slumped languorously into the seat. Dean mimicked him settling in the adjacent one.

Jared immediately set to work, opening the cupboards and pulling out the needed supplies. "I'm sorry for this," he offered, "I know this is hard for you."

Finally John found his voice. "It's okay, I see what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it," he rambled in all one take, "Sammy…doesn't…remember us. He, uh...." The loss of words for what he felt had impeccable timing. "Well, it is what it is. The only thing we can do now is hope for him to remember. You said you found him?"

"Yes sir," Jared set down the cup of steaming black coffee and hot chocolate on the table. "We were driving early one morning on the way to my aunt's house and we found him on the side of the road and he was pretty torn up. We took him to hospital instantly."

"How long ago?"

"Uh...it was on a Saturday morning about four months ago."

John breathed a sigh of relief, "That was the day after," he turned to Dean. Dean silently agreed, sipping the cup of coco, his eyes permanently downcast. John turned back to the man, who was now pouring the scalding brew into two more cups. "So he's been with you the entire time?"

"Yes."

John's head fell into his hands. "Oh thank God."

The young man joined them at the table with the two cups. "We tried doing the best we could for him. Like I said, he wasn't in the best of shape when we found him, but he's progressed a lot since then."

All sense of worry left John in a single flash. He could feel the burden, the Hell, the last few months had put upon him leave…it was like getting a taste of freedom after being chained and locked in a dark dungeon for so long. "Thank you. God, I can't…just thank you. I can't tell you how happy I am at hearing that," he sighed.

"It was no problem. We were glad to have taken him in."

"And I'm equally glad because you definitely had some moves on ya. No doubt from what I've seen, you'd protect him. I have to ask though, where'd you learn those from?"

Jared smirked. "Ex-Marine, sir. Had a nasty leg injury a couple years back, so they gave me an honorable discharge."

"Oh, I was in marines once. God, Vietnam seemed like such a long time ago."

Jared nodded. The man's answer of being in the Marine Corps made all the more sense for his impulsiveness and tough demeanor upon his arrival. Though taking in the man's haggard appearance now, he sympathized. He resembled more like a drug addict who had gone an entire week without his supply. There was no dispute in that the disappearance of his son had affected him, added a few years on him. He was slightly uneasy by the father's forceful entrance, but if the tables were reversed and it had been his son, there was no doubt he'd have done the same desperate act. And it was evident that the man had no malevolent intent towards the child. Though he was curious as to how he lost Sam in the first place.

Hannah joined them a few minutes later, taking a seat beside her husband. Eying the family humbly, she said, "Sam's asleep again. Hopefully he'll be out for the rest of the night. I'm sorry for what you had to witness…and I'm also sorry for what I had to say. I didn't know what else to do."

John raised a hand indicating for the woman to calm. "It's okay, you did the right thing."

"Um sir," Jared began tentatively, "If you wouldn't mind, Sam doesn't remember all that much. And we still don't know what happened to him. Would it be too much to ask if you could tell us?"

The nauseating feeling that wriggled in his gut John associated with the events of that night struck a cord. He contemplated. Every instinct of his secret life demanded that he not reveal to these people the harrowing details. It really wasn't any of their business, but deep down he knew after everything they've done, they deserved to know.

Somewhat apprehensive, he took in his son's earnest expression before saying. "Our past is a bit complicated. I'm a single dad, so I try to do what I can…And my job sometimes keeps me away for weeks at a time," he paused licking his lips, "One night, I was coming home late and a couple of intruders came into our house…" His breath hitched. One part of him questioned if what he was doing was right. But he continued anyway, "They beat down Dean, and left him in a huddled heap on the floor. I'm guessing they wanted Sammy all along, because they found him in the closet and took him. I came home a couple hours later. If I hadn't...Dean probably..." he stopped, unable to go on. The vivid reminder of finding his bloody boy would forever cripple him.

"It's okay Mr. Winchester," Jared interrupted, understanding how difficult relaying the past was for the man, "You don't have to tell us anymore. We understand and it makes a whole lot more sense of what he's been going through. Now we still don't know how exactly he became amnesiac, but it was good in that you told us what we need to be aware of. Have the kidnappers been apprehended yet?"

"No," John shook his head solemnly.

Jared gave a look of concern, the image of finding the van floating in his mind. "Well, all I can really say is…if they haven't tracked him down from the last few months. They probably have given up on him. Which is good, I suppose?"

At that, John felt a certain peace within him. He had finally found his son and wanted to be as close to him as possible. But that sense of relief only last a brief moment. With the threat that instigated this whole fiasco still prowling around, his son wasn't safe. He knew the logic Mr. Winslow spouted was rational, but untrue. Those men wanted Sam for a reason; a reason they were still stumped about. And no doubt would be on the lookout for him. There was only one option left: Sam had to leave. If he was to truly remain safe again and not put these people at risk, he had to get him out. Staying in one place was like targeted ducks sitting out on the open water.

John stood, his marine stance following, "Thank you for what you have done. I could never truly thank you enough. But we would like to be out of here by morning, Sam with us."

The couple exchanged nervous glances. "Uh, Mr. Winchester, I don't think that's a good idea," Hannah voiced.

"Excuse me? Why the hell not?"

"I don't mean to object. He is your son, we know that. But Sam isn't ready for traveling with you just yet."

John gave her a look of contempt. The kind conjecture of these people was slowly beginning to lose its sway. "If you're trying to tell me no, then you better stop while you're ahead."

Dean got up preparing himself. He turned the side of his head, squinting, trying to make out the muddled words. Hearing the tension in his father's voice, he knew where this was leading. It wasn't going to end well.

Jared spoke up. "I'm sorry Mr. Winchester, but my wife is right. Sam isn't ready yet. He needs time. He still can't..."

With the young man's argument, John grew angry. "You know I can see why you're saying this. It's because you've grown attached. You don't want to let him go."

"No, that's not it. Yes, we love Sam, and he is rightfully yours—"

"Good this conversation is over then," John interposed.

"No sir it's not," Hannah objected sternly. "You need to understand that Sam does not remember you. If you take him away him right now, it might jeopardize everything so far. He might take it the wrong way and..."

"He'll be fine. He's a lot stronger than you give him credit for."

"And we agree with you. But I guarantee you, if you do this, you will lose him. Just give him time, that's all we ask."

John stayed silent stewing over what was said.

"Besides," Hannah spoke uncomfortably, "There are legal matters we have to attend to first before we hand him over."

John looked up, "What are you talking about?"

"Right now, Jared and I are his legal guardians. When he was in the hospital, the CPS was all over him. And the only way to keep him from going deep into the system was if we were to claim him."

A fiery rage sprouted in the father and he was about to burst. "Oh hell no! Hell no. You're not going to use that against me you stupid bitch!"

"Hey," Jared yelled.

"You had no right to put him in the system!" He couldn't help the tantrum that ensued, but another one of his deep-seated fears had surfaced. Could this situation get any worse? Scratch that-it certainly can!

"We had no choice," Hannah lashed back.

"He is my son—not yours and you are not keeping him!"

"That's not what we're implying. Now please keep your voice down."

Incredibly irate that now he had CPS to deal with and could still possibly lose his son, he asked, "How long is this going to take?"

"We don't know, but we had to make a quick decision, and this is the one we made."

"You better hope we don't have any problems," he threatened.

Jared stepped forward, "That is enough." His wife, however, leaned forward on the table, glaring into the man's eyes. "If you're a good parent like you say you are, then you have nothing to worry about," she said icily.

The thermometer in John temper stat busted and he was about to unleash holy hell. But his son, who had been watching in fear from the sidelines, finally found his voice and quickly latched onto his father's arm.

"Stop! Enough is enough. Dad, come here," Dean cried out pulling on the arm, roughly using all his weight to drag the ex-marine. He took him outside to what looked like the backyard, closing the sliding glass door behind them.

"What the hell are you doing Dean? Don't you stand there and stop...."

"DAD!" Dean half-shouted. "Just listen to them for a second. They're right. We can't take Sam. Not right now."

"Don't you dare side with these people! We finally found your brother and they're saying no in handing him over to us. And you're agreeing with them? Don't you...get out of the way! If we have to take him by force, then..."

"Dad stop! Shut up!" Dean demanded, "I'm not saying leave him here. Heck no! I don't like it at all, but the Winslow's are right. Sammy doesn't remember us. If we go taking him right now, then he'll probably think that we were the ones who took him in the first place."

"Dean, get your head out of the clouds. He won't think that."

"Yes he will. I know how he thinks..."

"Oh you do, huh? And like I don't know my own son as well…"

"No dad, you don't…I'm sorry," he said with tears running down his face, "You don't.

You're always away from us. You weren't there...when….He doesn't know you. He doesn't know me anymore..."

"Dean, don't even think about pulling a guilt trip on me. He will remember. All we have to do is tell him, and he will."

Dean shook his head, "No dad, this is Sammy we're talking about. He won't if we force it on him. We can't take him yet, not until he remembers us first."

"Dean…"

"Dad please! This is...this is all too much. I know that. But Sam needs you to understand this for right now. I need you to understand right now. I...I want Sammy back bad, but not if we're going to scare him away."

"So what are you suggesting? Leave him here, come back until he does. That could take years!"

"No, if we stay with him. Spend a little time with him, maybe it'll come back. I hope it'll come back. I don't know. That's all I ask. Please dad, for Sammy."

John studied his son for a long moment and realized that he was much wiser than his eleven years. He should be looking at a broken, tempered pre-teen who should be fighting against these people, but what he saw was an able-bodied empathetic young man who knew the difference between right and wrong. Who knew how to handle himself in a tight predicament; who loved and cared for his brother; who would grow to be a remarkable man someday.

He thought about what his son was trying to say, allowing his temper to ebb away, and his mind to become clear. It all made sense. He couldn't take Sam now. After all they went through over the past months with no hope and endless searching, and then finally find their truly valued member, only for him to be completely amnesic, not even remember his last name; it was heart-breaking, too much to bear on his aging heart. He was already seen as a stranger in his baby's eyes, he didn't need to be seen as the bad guy.

"Alright fine," He huffed eying the night sky, "After all this time…"

"Dad, just be glad he's been with these people and not with the other guys," Dean remarked.

John nodded his head, "I am. Come on, let's get you back inside. It's cold out here."

Together they entered the kitchen. Taking a long breath, he apologized to the weary couple. "I'm sorry I never should have taken my anger out on you. It wasn't fair."

"It's okay Mr. Winchester, we understand," Jared spoke, "Again, we can't imagine how hard this is for you, and we're not trying to keep your son. But we need you to understand that this is the best for Sam."

"I know. And what my son Dean proposes is that, if you don't mind, that we stick around. Try to become friends with him, see if," he sighed, "See if he can try to get his memory back. That's all we...I can do at the moment."

"Thank you. And it is fine with us. In fact, that's probably the best way. If you would like, you can stay here. We have another spare bedroom," Hannah offered.

"No, thank you. I will stay elsewhere. Dean will stay here."

"Dad?" Dean protested.

"No Dean, that's final. You're right, he knows you a lot more than me. Besides you'll be closer to Sammy."

Grudgingly, Dean accepted. "Yes sir."

Afterwards, John went up to see Sam. He slowly approached the sleeping child, resting his palm against the tiny forehead. He tried hard to stifle a sob. "Sleep well Sam. I'll be back soon. Your brother will be here with you. It's okay now. I won't stop until you're safe again." The child moaned rolling over into his touch. John's lip creased and he walked away. Without a nod or even a glance, he left into the night.

As midnight approached, Hannah and Jared attended to Dean in the upstairs hallway, making sure he would be comfortable. Jared took his small duffel up to the guest room and unfurled the stiff comforter.

"We have other pillows and blankets, if you need them. They're in the spare closet across the other guest room."

"Thanks," Dean replied quietly, "Um, can I stay in Sam's room?"

Hannah grimaced, biting her lip. "That might not be such a good idea. Look Dean, I know this is extremely hard for you, too. And again I can't begin to imagine what you're going through, but Sam is extremely fragile right now. And to be honest, we can't really risk any setbacks. I'm afraid that if you do, it won't be good. He's come a long way. I'm sorry Dean."

Hannah's heart panged when she saw the despondent shine in the kid's eyes and the bowing of his head as if in despair. "But soon Dean, I promise. Once Sam gets to know you again, then it shouldn't be a problem."

"Then I have something to hold to," Dean said to her before disappearing into the room.

Hannah's shoulder's slumped down in defeat. She couldn't stand the thought of another child in emotional turmoil. Jared wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to their bedroom. "You're doing the right thing."

She huffed. "I hope you're right."

**And that's it. Sam gets to stay and John gets to be all postal…haha just kidding. But you can bet that's where he'll be heading. Stay tuned as Dean finds he has his hands full and he gets a taste of normality as well.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Phew, the last one sure brought on some tension, didn't it? That's okay, this one sort of winds down a bit when it comes to the drama. Dean gets to hang with his little brother and John gets to begin the greatest hunt he ever partook in. Since I'm back now, I still will be getting back to your reviews! Keep em' coming. Let me know what I got to work on! Hope you enjoy!**

As John hopped off the porch and headed towards his beloved car, a terrible sense of turmoil raged within him and he found he couldn't concentrate long enough to open the door. He was too angry. Too hurt to fully perceive anything. Finally, once he managed to calm down, somewhat able to concentrate, he opened the door and slid in. There he felt he could let loose all his feelings, all his troubles, without someone witnessing his weakened composure.

Driving off in the darkness, his next destination was for a motel. He couldn't stay. Not when there were other kids out there in need of help. The needy father within him shouted and fussed, wanting desperately to stay with his kids. The hunter in him easily overpowered the upset father, the ardor of saving innocent victims taking precedence. But he couldn't help feel that leaving his kids behind was like committing an act of betrayal.

In order to convince himself that this was the wisest course of action, he told himself his departure was for his kids. If the villains had a plan of using the kids as fodder, then his kids still weren't safe. And no doubt would be sought after, especially since Sammy somehow managed to escape. He thought long and hard about the circumstance, and as much as he really didn't want to admit it, perhaps Dean's dream wasn't a dream at all. With that in mind, the closeness, the bond the brothers shared was incredibly valuable. And it made the validation of his decision for leaving his eldest with Sammy all the more potent.

His time of gallivanting was not over. Now was the time to hunt down those bastards and without the worry over his son, he relished in the challenge. He would not be at peace until they were six-feet under. It was time to gather the troops and head out. Speed-dialing Bobby's number, he waited patiently for the man to answer.

After the third ring, he heard a gruff, "Singer here."

"I found him, Bobby. I found Sam," he informed softly, suppressing the need to shout.

Bobby slowly looked up. "John's found Sam." Immediately the other two hunters in the motel room ceased their activities and jumped to their feet. Already a stream of questions was pouring from their mouths. "Is he okay?"; "Where was he?"; "Who had him?"; "Are they dead?"; "Did he kill them?"

Bobby violently fanned the air, indicating for the others to shut their traps. "Shhh. Wait a minute, is this John?"

"Yeah, it's me Bobby. The last name Winchester. My last social digits are 2401, and my dog as a child was a lab," John said enumerating all the identification codes.

"Hot damn! Well, how is he? Is he okay?"

John smiled. "He's okay. I don't know if I should be happy or I should be sad. He's fine…Okay, okay, he's not fine. Sam has amnesia and he doesn't remember us. But he's not with those bastards…Dean was right. His dream was real after all—"

"John. John, ya gotta slow down," Bobby interrupted. "Take a breather. All I heard was dadadaada. You said Sam has amnesia?"

John blew out a long breath, "Yeah."

"And you're…well, where is he now? What's going on?"

"It turns out Sam got away and a young couple found him and took him in. He couldn't remember anything, but they said they found a missing poster in town yesterday."

Bobby let out a barking chuckle, "What d'ya know?" he turned to Caleb. "The people that found Sam saw one of your posters."

Caleb beamed. "Hey it was his idea," he pointed at the phone, "I'm just glad all that work paid off."

"So he's safe?" Bobby asked watching the pastor beside him give a silent prayer of thanks.

"Yeah," John gasped. "Dammit to Hell, he's safe."

"Phew Johnny, I can't tell ya how relieving that is to hear. But I gotta ask, what're we going to do now? There are other kids out there."

"I didn't say I was done. We're going to set out and find them. I just need to get a few hours of sleep before I head towards you guys."

"What about your kids?"

"They're going to stay with the Winslow's for the time being. I trust them. Besides if anyone can help Sam get his memory back, it's Dean. Plus he knows what wards to put up while I'm gone."

"Boy, is that gonna raise a lot of questions? Alright, as long as you know what you're doing. We'll see ya soon. You know where to find us," he hung up.

Still on the search for a motel, John still was at unease about leaving his children, questioning himself profusely if it was the right thing. He much rather would have preferred to take them with him, but if Sammy was still fragile, he couldn't take the chance. Besides, this was his boys' chance at having a normal life. He'd call in periodically; check in on them from time to time about Sammy's progress. That was his only justification for leaving. He just hoped he was on the right path.

-

The following morning, Dean sat at the bar-table munching on a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. He occasionally looked around, noting the cleanliness and the oak pantries and cabinets. Everything: the stove, microwave, fridge, even the countertops glistened, as if they were brand spanking new. Compared to some of the slums he had the _privilege_ of residing in, this kitchen was like the royal palace. Everything was in neat order and it wasn't hard to find the proper supplies in making his breakfast.

His neck muscle gave a twitch. Shaking it off, he fiddled with the ear-piece in his ear. Sometimes the damn thing would become irritating as Hell, itchy, and produce some unnecessary static. He took it out and wiped it clean off his shirt. Using the same material, he wiped the inside of his ear. Whilst busy adjusting the dial on the device, he didn't hear the sound of the kitchen door open.

In entered Sammy in his Deputy Dog pajamas, humming a tune, and on a mission. Dean stilled, eying the boy as he walked past, apparently overlooking him. Sam opened the bottom cabinet by the stove and rummaged around in it, taking out the box of Fruity Pebbles. Dean didn't dare move, but nervously said "Hey."

Sam casually replied "Hi" back, opening the box. Then instantly he froze, turning around and backing up in alarm, staring at the new boy with consternation. Dropping the box of cereal, he scampered out of the kitchen and upstairs to the Winslow's bedroom. Barging in, he raced to Hannah's side hopping up and down. Attempting to say there was a stranger in the kitchen, he kept tripping and slurring over his words. All that came out was a garbled mess.

Slightly alarmed, Hannah sat up, placing a hand on the little boy's face. "Sam. Sam. Sam. It's okay. Hey. Hey. Calm down. What's wrong? There's a boy downstairs? Is that what you're trying to say?"

Sam nodded in affirmation.

She smiled. "It's okay. He's just a friend we invited over. He needed a place to stay for awhile and so we gave him the other room across from yours. It's alright."

Taking a breather, Sam stepped back. Feeling sheepish, he asked, "Is that what all that yelling was about last night?"

Hannah bit down on her teeth. Crooking her jaw to the side, she slurred out, "Noo, uh…" she was at a loss for words. She didn't want to lie to Sam, but she didn't suppose saying "Hey Sam, it's your long lost brother that showed up" would be great either. So she remained stumped with Sam imploring deeply, waiting for an answer. Until her husband stirred next to her and that gave her an idea. "Uh…Jared just had a run in with a hot stove. You know how he gets. He can't bake cookies no matter how hard he tries."

"What about me?" a sleep-ladened voice rasped out.

"Nothing honey," she answered causing Sam to laugh. "Okay now come on. Let's go meet our new friend." Taking his hand, she led him downstairs towards the kitchen, leaving her husband to get a few more 'Z's'.

Sam kept his stance hidden behind her, curious, but yet scared at the newcomer. Entering the small space, they found Dean washing his bowl in the sink. "Good morning Dean. How are you doing?"

"Swell," the boy answered glumly, glancing at the child peeking around Hannah's side. He recognized that as Sam's pattern when he was nervous about something. And it pained him to know that it was he that Sam used to hide behind.

Appearing abashed, Hannah gently gripped Sam's cast and led him out in front of her. "It's okay. Sam, I'd like you to meet Dean Winchester. Dean, this is Sam."

Dean struggled heavily in not letting the waterworks begin. "Hey Sam. I-it's…uh, nice to meet you."

Peering innocently at the boy, Sam nodded his head. Dean also recognized that as his little brother's way of speaking when nervous.

"Okay Sam, you ready for breakfast?" Hannah asked. Again Sam nodded. Leading him to the table, Hannah set about making his cereal, picking up the fallen box and grabbing a bowl.

Dean followed his little brother to the table, watching him, his eyes never straying off the little figure. He took in the colorful cast on his arm, the flush of his cheeks, and overall healthy appearance. He looked cheery, happy, and not a bit downtrodden. He wasn't quite sure if should have been happy or more depressed.

-

Later that day, it was a never ending game. Dean would walk around, get to know his surroundings, and Sam followed him cautiously. Every time Dean checked behind him, the little sneak would hide, not wanting to be seen. Dean didn't know if he found it funny or annoying. Sam wouldn't speak to him, just stared. _So much for catching up!_

Finally when Sam grew tired of acting commando-spy and warmed up to Dean's presence, he began reading again. Dean tried to hang around him, play a game or so, but all the kid wanted to do was read. _So typical_… Anytime Sam was bored, he'd pick up a book. Dean had to roll his eyes. His brother, even with amnesia, never changed. _Lame!_

"Hey Sammy," Dean called out sitting on the couch.

Without looking up from his book, Sam replied "It's Sam."

_Yep, never changed!_

Dean shrugged. "Instead of reading that book, you want to play cards?" he asked hoping there was at least a set sitting around somewhere. But from the looks of things, it was highly doubtful.

Sam shrugged. "No."

_Again, typical!_

Disappointed Dean rose off the couch and limped steadily away. The brace that covered the entire length from his hip to barely over his knee rubbed his skin raw. He made his way past Hannah dusting off the books in the bookshelf and admired the glass shelf full of model cars on display. Sensing the child beside her, Hannah said to him, "Don't feel bad Dean. Once he gets into one of his books, that's it. It's hard to get him to do anything else. He does that almost constantly."

"Yeah I know," Dean replied, taking his eyes off a 1967 Shelby Cobra model. "It was always a habit of his. Made him a wiz at Scrabble."

"Yeah, he does know his Scrabble. Hey, maybe he would want to play. What about it Sam? Do you want to play a game of Scrabble?" Hannah called out. Sam peeked up from the couch and wordlessly agreed. Setting down her duster, Hannah then pulled out the board from the bookshelf and set it out on the livingroom floor beside the couch. Dean carefully sat down, resting on his stomach, the only way he figured to accommodate the bad leg. Sam crawled over to Hannah's side and hopped in her lap, both teaming up.

"Hey, that's not fair," Dean whined.

"It's okay Dean. I won't put in any input. I'll just do the tallies," Hannah truced, as they all set about playing.

It was quiet while they played. The half and hour mark hit and the players were still thinking hard, strategizing, hoping to squash the opponent's dream of becoming Scrabble champion—even if Sam was beating Dean by a landslide.

Sometime in the game, while studying his letter bank, Dean caught a few letters and an ingenious thought occurred to him. On his turn, he purposefully spelled out the words of the last game he and his brother played. Rearranging the letter-blocks, he spelled 'arse', hoping for a reaction. To which Sam laughed but showed no sign of his memory returning.

"Dean!" Hannah reprimanded, "Interesting choice, but if you want to switch them around, you can spell Ares."

"Ah, he's the god of war, right?" Sam piped.

"Yep," Hannah answered.

Dejected, Dean changed the letters. That was _sooo_ not the reaction he was hoping for. He coldly rolled his eyes while his brother took his turn. While in reach for his letters, Sam's eyes drooped. Without warning, he fell back against Hannah's chest fast asleep.

Noticing the sudden change of behavior, Dean automatically checked his watch. "Yep, right on time."

Hannah peered at him curiously.

"12:07 p.m., his current nap time. No matter where he's at, even if it's at school, under the bed, or even on a horse. At this time he's out like a light," Dean informed.

Hannah nodded. "That's right. This has been his normal nap time everyday. You really are his brother? Here, I'll get him to the couch."

"I can do it," Dean spoke up, swinging his bad leg out in order to get up.

"Uh…sure you can help me."

Together they carried the boy to the couch. Naturally Dean reached for the quilt draped over the back and placed it on his napping sibling. Taking a seat beside him, he ran a hand through the unruly locks; giving a meek smile…he had missed his kid brother so much. Hannah smiled at the interaction, watching the two kids curiously. "He's been a great kid. A real privilege to have," she said.

"I know. Before…all this happened, he was always my responsibility. Any time Dad was always out on the job, I babysitted. And I didn't mind either," he gazed at the woman virtuously. "We would always make things up, trying to bide time. He would be into his books and I was into my magazines," he sighed, "I can't believe that's all over now."

Hannah's smile deepened into a frown. "It doesn't have to be over. He'll come back to you soon. As long as you don't give up on him, he'll pull through. Now I don't know if things will go back to the way they were, that's not my call. But I do believe with time and patience," she licked her lips, "…a lot of patience, things will alright again."

Dean sat back against the couch in between Sam and Hannah. "Mrs. Winslow?"

"Yeah."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure hun."

Dean paused a moment, trying to word his words correctly. "You said…you said he was having nightmares about me."

"Right."

"Then how is it he doesn't remember me or at least recognize me?"

Hannah thought about his question. She had to admit it was expected. "I don't know. Psychologically speaking it can be a number of things. When it comes to memory loss, especially with Sam's case in the sense of trauma, most of the time, the memories are there in the back of your mind. It's just it's difficult to procure them when you need em'. So sometimes people will dream them, believe they don't exist. And sometimes it can be night terrors or the brainwaves in REM sleep mode could be unusual or—"

"Mrs. Winslow?" Dean interrupted humbly, "Short answer, please."

"Oh right, sorry. Uh, in Sam's case the nightmares could possibly be night terrors and usually many folks with them don't remember afterwards. He tells me and Jared just after he has had them, because normally we have to wake him through them. And when someone sees something that resembles what they dreamt about, it'll be familiar to them, but they can't quite put their finger on it. Kinda like déjà vu."

"Oh," Dean responded, fully understanding what she meant.

"And I gotta tell ya Dean, it was a long while before he could tell us what he dreamt about. And when he finally did, he said it was the same every night. Just a little boy with his face down on the ground bleeding and he was inside a bathroom. Not too long ago, he remembered something else. The same boy, but he could hardly see his face…and he was reading a magazine. We want to think it was an adult magazine."

Dean turned away sheepishly. "Of course! Of all things he could remember, it had to be that," he muttered.

-

A good hour had passed and Sam was still out cold. Not really having most of his belongings with him—not even one of his own car magazines— Dean slowly began to go stir-crazy. He realized after sometime while Hannah watched a current episode of _As the World Turns_ and his brother slept, he had to do something else besides watching soap-operas and admire tasteless curtains.

Figuring he might as well find out what the 'Man of the House' was up to, he strolled into the kitchen towards the basement door. Opening the door, he found the stairs to be like a long dark tunnel. The light far down at the end gave in to the effect. Carefully hobbling down the creaky steps, he gawked in amazement when he reached the base.

It was like walking into one of his dreams. The place was huge with racks of tools. Wrenches. Saws. Jack-hammers. The list went on. Everything neatly hung. Gadgets were strewn about the cemented floor along the walls. Agglomerates of car parts were shelved on another wall. It had everything a mechanic could possibly need. All that was missing was the classic muscle car for all the parts to go in.

"Hey there Dean," a voice called out disrupting the hazy dream-like surroundings. He turned and saw Jared sitting at a work-bench, fiddling with a long metal grill. He instantly recognized that as a top for a radiator.

"Whoa! Whoa! Holy cowlie moses! You own this place?" Dean asked excitably.

A bright smile lit up on the man's face. "Yatzee."

"Crikey! This is like every mechanics dream-boat."

Jared glanced around. "Eh, hardly a boat, but definitely my humble abode."

Dean caught sight of the devices on the work bench, and the rusted gears slowly began to turn. "You created all this stuff?"

"Hmmm, most of it. I still am working on some of the new stuff," Jared answered, "Sometimes I just stick with the basics, and let the new guys handle the new parts. I'm trying to work around a carburetor, but that thing's got my keister in a sling."

"Yeah I hear ya," Dean limped towards him and settled on the bench. "I can't get my head wrapped around the mixing of the air and the fuel. But hey, if it makes the car go faster and helps with the eight pistons, all the more better."

Jared gaped in aw at the kid. "So I see you know a little bit about cars, huh?"

Dean shrugged. "Little bit. My dad used to be a mechanic. My Uncle Bobby too. I try to learn what I can, cuz I can't wait to try it out. Even if trying to understand how a solenoid works downright kicks my ass!"

"Dean!" Jared reprimanded.

"Sorry."

And that was it. Dean had found his inner sanctum, his ultimate get-a-way if and when he was bored. He hung out in the basement with Jared for a long while. Jared was kind enough to teach him all the new components to some of the newer models in cars. He allowed him to help wield and create a few parts, and help clarify some of the basics of auto mechanics 101.

It had to have been hours the two played and worked, becoming all the more greasy as the minutes zoomed by. Overall the two were having a great time; it didn't bother them in the least bit. Dean also enjoyed it tremendously. It was the first time in a long time he was stress free. He didn't have to worry about his injuries. He didn't have to worry about finding his brother. Even the stress for his dad was at an all time low. He was in his zone…_the auto zone!_

Picking up a fan-belt, Dean carried it over to one of the shelves by Jared's request. There he caught a black cap with a Marine pin suspended up on a hook. He remembered his father having a similar one when he rummaged through his father's belongings not too long ago. "Mr. Winslow. Can I ask you a question?"

Jared looked up after tossing a screwdriver back into its crate. "Sure."

Dean was slightly taken aback. It felt kinda weird that he was allowed to ask a man a question and get away with it. "If you like to invent stuff…or make engine parts, then why'd you go into the Marines?"

The question sure did take Jared by surprise. He kneaded the side of the counter, pondering how best to answer. Giving a short chuckle, he said, "Well…it's the ol' tradition story, fall in love with a girl. You need money to support…hardly any jobs, only one open…and it turned out I really liked it. Until…"he pointed to his leg.

"What happened?"

Jared rubbed the side of his face, a little uncomfortable with the memory. "Mmmm…" He could still see the bright flash of the explosion that blown him off a six-story high building; the faces of the two pricks responsible for putting a large crater into the side of the edifice. If it hadn't been for his quick judgment, no one else would have noticed the two marines having mentally snapped and chose to blow up the compound.

He wanted to have called himself a hero for alerting the people to exit the building in time. But he couldn't when there were two he couldn't save. Those two men he confronted on top of the roof before they let loose the bomb. The memory was as clear as day. The sorrow. The eerie look of madness in their eyes. There wasn't anything he could have done. And before he knew it, they hit the trigger killing themselves instantly and sending him over the edge and into a fire escape rail.

The severe pain he felt at the impact still sat as a heavy stone in the back of his mind. The crash through the several tons of metal, nearly severing his tibia, splintering and compacting his thigh and femur hung like a darkened veil. Yeah, that's an experience one would never forget. For his unit, however, the authorities saw it best as to keep the incident under wraps and label it as an accident. Months later Jared received the news of his leg permanently damaged.

It was a long moment it took for Jared to realize he zoned out. Only when Dean was waving a hand in front of his face, then it donned on him he was staring off into space.

"Oh. Sorry. What'd you say?"

"Um, just, what happened to your leg?" Dean asked innocently.

"Oh um, sorry. Must've gotten lost somewhere. Uh, it was actually just a bunch of guys fooling around. Did a major backfire," he answered, somewhat reluctant in revealing to the kid what really happened.

"Oh. Did it hurt?"

That comment made Jared laugh. It seemed demented in a way. "You have no idea. Nearly had to amputate it. Thank God it didn't have to come to that. But…I was allowed to come home after that, and then it was time to relax."

Dean took a seat beside him again. "How long ago?"

"Mmm, about a couple years back. They still send me a nice check though, so that's nice."

"How long have you been married?"

Jared paused. He actually had to start counting on his fingers. _Oh, Hannah would've been pleased. _"Not too long ago, about nine months actually."

"Oh. Your wife is really nice. She makes awesome sandwiches too. She helped me with Sam upstairs."

"Did she?"

"Yep," Dean bowed his head down, "But it was no use, he didn't remember. Nothing seemed familiar."

"No? Well, the doc said that was expected. He wasn't sure if his memory would come back in small parts or all at once. But he was pretty confident that he would get it back eventually…and with you here, bringing back some of your old habits might do the trick," Jared tried to reassure.

Dean nodded looking around. He wasn't really in the mood for talking about his initial failed attempt. His eyes roamed all over while Jared went back to the piece he currently worked on. Looking in between two of the shelves, he found a large laundry shaft...or what appeared to be a laundry shaft. But the kitchen was in the opposite direction of the ceiling, so how could it be a laundry shoot?

With his curiosity bigger than his brain, Dean had to ask. "Uh Mr. Winslow, what is that?"

Jared turned and looked to where the boy was pointing. "Uh, it's an old laundry shoot."

"Huh?" Dean replied, "But the kitchen is that way?"

"Yeah you're right. But this house is fairly old, and over there is where the kitchen used to be. Now that thing is just closed up, but it does have an opening to the outside…which is kinda useless. But I haven't messed with it," he pressed his lips shaking his head, "…probably won't."

Dean gave him one big nod, getting the picture that Jared was being nonchalant about it.

"So Dean, did your father leave? Is he coming back?"

At that, Dean grew tense. He thought hard. Anytime the prospect of his father's disappearance come up, the position became rather awkward and he hoped he had the creative juices to weave an intricate lie. He had a vague idea of where his father journeyed off to, and it wasn't to no motel either. Knowing his father, he was searching still non-stop for the perpetrators that put him into a coma. And he was more than glad to create a false alibi. "Yeah, his job called him away. He said there's nothing else he can do except for what we're doing, so he figured he better keep his job."

"Oh…sooo what does your dad do…job wise, I mean?"

"Uh, he's a sales-rep."

"Really? Selling what?"

"Uh, I don't know. Maybe Avon products," Dean smart-alicked. "He doesn't really tell us all that much. It's just business," he said furtively, putting an end to it.

Jared nodded, picking up the hint that there was more to it, but he didn't press. He couldn't help but feel that it wasn't his place. But…then he also couldn't help feel that there was something he needed to know, because the wiggling in his gut alerted him that something was not ordinary to the boy's answer. Giving the boy a smirk, he uttered, "Fair enough."

**Voila, another light chapter. Poor Dean, wasn't able to fix Sammy. But no worries, he's not giving up. The next chapter, however, he might take it to heart though. Lots of Dean angst and bit of whumpage for all you Dean girls! Plus Dr. Chris comes back! So stay tuned. And as for Jared's hero story, I mean no offense to anyone out there in the Marines. This was not based on any true events or anyone I know, just a little plot I thought of. I hear it can be a grueling career and some people do snap (in any military discipline...or any profession). So if you do take offense, I apologize. I one-hundred percent stand up for and support the Marines and/or any other military discipline. I just had to give my man a bit of backstory. Again, hope that clarifies. Tootles! **


	15. Chapter 15

**Hidy-ho folks! Here is the next installment. Sorry for the slow update. But you wouldn't believe the problems I had with this chapter. I just couldn't get it right. So I'm hoping that you still enjoy it, that it makes at least a lick of sense and is all the more angsty. It was a hard decision, but I decided to make this into two separate parts. It just became too long: 15 pages without the spacing. So yeah, two chapters was a must! This chapter deals with mostly Dean angst and the next one deals with more Dean angst and a bit of whump. I'll try to get the next one up tomorrow. Sorry about that. ;(**

_Two weeks later:_

The television blared loudly showing the Family Channel's latest comedy movie. On the floor, the kids kicked their feet joyously, overcome with laughter. Even the adults, snug together on the couch, giggled incessantly at the movie's antics. The couple watched with fascination at the two boys below, simultaneously acting the same, laughing the same, even reaching for the popcorn at the same time. It was too cool!

Soon the film ended with the rapidly flowing credits, indicating the eight o'clock hour, Sam's bedtime.

Jared checked his watched. "Okay, little man. Time for your bath, and then it's time for bed."

Sam's little giggle fit came to an end. "Ah man. That's not fair. Dean gets to stay up."

"That's because Dean's older," Hannah said, catching the other boy giving a smug smirk.

"Ooh, first can't we watch _Thundercats_? It's over at 8:30," Sam asked shooting them his most wounded expression.

That look was the couple's undoing. They were at a loss. Rolling his eyes politely, Jared nodded. "Sure. Why not?"

But Dean gave Sam a look of pure poison. "Sam, when they say its time for bed. It's time for bed."

Totally surprised at the boy's lambasting tone, Hannah assured, "Dean it's okay. He can stay up."

"Why are you being so nice? An attitude like that needs discipline," he nearly shouted.

"Dean, calm down. It's just an extra half hour. I hardly doubt that requires a lashing," Hannah replied, alarmed.

"No!" the boy objected, "When you say he's got to do something. He should do it. No backtalk."

Clearly unsettled and speechless, Hannah didn't know what to do or say. She turned to Jared, who put his hand up. "Stand down soldier. It's okay. He kindly asked if he could stay up, and we gave him permission."

Dean curled in his lip turning back around, huffing in disappointment.

Hannah still stared in alarm and curiosity. It was evident that Sam's behavior was seen as unacceptable in Dean's eyes. Slowly she began to acquire an inkling about what their life was like before. Jared's answer had proven that when Dean automatically obeyed. She watched as her husband switched the channel.

"What is it, channel thirteen Sam?" he asked, receiving no answer. "Sam?"

Sam appeared crestfallen. "No he's right. I should listen," and with that Sam slowly rose off his floor pillow and trudged upstairs. That put the couple on the spot. Jared turned to Hannah and shrugged. With his wife patting his back for support, he rose from the couch, heading up the stairs.

Dean remained on the ground staring at the TV screen, unmoving.

Hannah saw this as her opportunity. "Dean? Can I talk to you?"

The little boy let out a big sigh, hanging his head, ready to be harangued. "I'm sorry for arguing. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble."

"You didn't cause any trouble," she replied softly, "I just want to talk. No lecture. No pointers. No nothing."

"Alright?"

Hannah took a deep breath sitting closer to the edge of the sofa. "Is…is everything okay with you?"

"I'm fine," he responded automatically as though he didn't want to talk.

"You sure?" she pressed.

"Yes, I am. But you shouldn't be so nice with him. Doing that will only make him learn to disrespect authority," Dean knew he was overstepping his bounds, but there wasn't any choice. His kid brother had to be ready. "You should be firm with him. Tell him what he can and cannot do. And if he doesn't, you need to punish him!"

"Dean, honey. This is not the military," Hannah exclaimed growing increasingly scrupulated. "Besides we don't have to. He already does that. He does his chores when we ask, he cleans his room. There's nothing really that requires punishment. And if he breaks something, he apologizes immediately for it and helps fix it…" she explained seeing the child turn his head away in shame.

"And I can see why you're so concerned, you're afraid we're softening him up."

"Yes I am," Dean blurted, "He's got to be ready, focused, no room for error—"

"For what? What is so bad out there that you feel like he's gotta be in commando boots with a gun?"

Dean stayed quiet. She didn't know about the things in the dark, and it wasn't his place to tell her. His dad was incredibly strict when it came to speaking about the unnatural. And no matter what, he would not disobey his father again. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Even if he had mentioned the dark side to her, all that would have gotten him was a daily dose of medication and a weekly visit to the psych ward.

He turned back to her and saw she was giving him a sympathetic look. "Dean. I can understand why you feel this way, especially with what happened to you. And that's never gonna happen again, I promise."

Dean looked up. "Why do you say that?"

"Because now we're aware. We can take the necessary precautions, and if need be—if you'd like—we can have a police unit outside our door 24/7."

Dean shook his head. "No. No, that's okay. I don't like the cops all that much."

"Okay," Hannah agreed, "But Dean…and I don't mean to impose, but you have to keep in mind Sam is just a child. He's…how old is he?"

"He's seven," Dean answered giving her a bewildered look when she nodded her head saying 'seven'. "You didn't know that."

Hannah shook her head, "No, we didn't. Sam couldn't remember and my friend gave me a range between six and nine. But anyways, having strict boundaries like the ones you are telling me…and this is just my opinion, are not going to give him certain freedoms. Like the ones…like discovering who he is, or becoming independent, or learning and viewing the world in his own eyes, not someone else's. Keeping him chained down to the core…you might not like the outcome in the end."

Dean didn't want to hear anymore. What the woman was suggesting was that they should grow up without his dad's orders. His dad's orders were what kept them alive…and alert.

"As far as Sam's concerned, we've had no problems— with backtalk or any of that. You and your dad did a terrific job in raising him. He couldn't be any better."

Dean calmed down slightly, mainly because the compliment lightened his mood.

"But Dean here's my advice," Hannah spoke up again, instantly killing his happy moment, "…and you can take it any way you want. But loosen up. Don't be so uptight all the time. Go out, have fun. Enjoy your childhood. Don't let this horrible experience change you. You don't want to die of stress too early, right? And anyways, it might help you with Sam."

Dean hated the warm and loving look that was plastered on her face. In a way, he felt she was trying to be like a mother to him. No way could she replace his mom— nobody ever would. He may have been only four when she passed, but that didn't mean he couldn't remember her warm smiles and soft voice. A terrible sense of rage swelled up within him, mainly directed at Hannah for even attempting to take on that role. He didn't need her. He didn't need anybody.

"Look Dean. With just you here and your dad gone—"

"I told you, he's on business," Dean suddenly squalled. With the stress he was feeling, he wasn't about to handle the pressure when it came to inquiring about his father's whereabouts anymore. "He'll be here when he feels like he should come back. That's it. Stop pushing."

Hannah sat back clearly astounded at the child's outburst (what was that about yelling and balktalk, again?). She raised her hands in defense. "Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. Calm down. There's no need to get angry. I'm not pressuring you about your dad. I was only just trying to tell you, that since you are in our care, we will tend to you as we see fit. And if that means pampering you guys, making you seem like you're the princes of the world, then so be it. You guys have been through enough already. Time to relax," she said sternly.

Judging by the tone Hannah was now giving him, Dean chose to keep his rebellion side at bay. He hated it when someone else was right. As the more he thought about it, he couldn't help but conclude that Hannah was right. She and her husband were taking care of _them_...not just Sam, but him as well. They easily could be snide people, abusive, taking out all their pains and misery on them. But they weren't. He had to bite his tongue when he realized they truly were good people…and he was criticizing them about their methods. Boy, did he feel like an ass?

He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get upset…or insult you. And I like what you're doing with Sam and me. So thank you," he said quietly, "But I would like to go to bed now."

Hannah eyed him deeply. Pursing her lips so she might be capable of keeping her mouth on hold for a bit, she muttered. "Alright, that's fine."

Without another moment's pause, Dean raced towards the stairs and up to his bedroom, leaving behind a stunned and curious Hannah. Closing the door quietly, not caring about undressing, he hopped into the bed, throwing the covers over his head and wrapped his arms around his pillow. He wanted his dad to come back soon. He hadn't heard from him in a while. And the pressure of keeping up the lie about his dad was becoming all the more taxing. He felt out of place…and wanted nothing more than to go home.

-

After Sam was well in bed and tucked under the covers, Jared sauntered over to the other guest bedroom and peeked inside. The other child was omitted from view, a huge lump protruding under the comforter set. He could see the mass slightly shaking, followed closely by a sniffle.

Jared kept quiet, insistent on giving the boy his space and privacy. It was apparent earlier that Dean was beyond frustrated at the whole matter. One can hardly blame the kid. His brother still hadn't a clue that he was related. His father had up and disappeared. And barely being used to new surroundings? With that in mind, Jared slowly closed the door, already satisfied that the eleven-year-old was snug in bed. There wasn't more he could do.

Quietly strolling down the hallway, itching for bed, he entered his bedroom to find his wife, already dressed in her nightgown, sitting at the edge of the bed. She had a deep brooding look about her, pensive and upset.

"Uh oh," he uttered foreboding about what's to come. Jerking his hands in the air, he said, "Alright. Let's get the rant of the century done and over with. Who are you about to beat the crap out of and why?"

"I don't want to beat the crap out of anyone, Jared," Hannah answered softly, staring intensely at the carpeted floor.

Ooh, the soft scolding tone to start with. He knew this was about to get ugly. And it didn't help that he was curious. "Then why do you look upset?"

"I'm just concerned."

"Is this about what Dean said earlier," he asked stripping off his over-shirt, "Did he say something else while you were talking?"

"A little bit. And it's got me thinking."

He huffed. "Oh God, that can't be good," he joked while slipping off his jeans and chucking them into the nearby hamper.

Hannah sent him a baleful glare. "This is not a joking matter, Jared."

"Okay. Okay," he surrendered, somewhat alarmed, "What's on your mind?"

It took a long second for her to answer. Her eyes swiveled back and forth like she was rounding up all the scattered thoughts and theories in her head, ready to spill like a busted fountain. "I'm just worried about this whole thing," she began. "It's been bothering me for quite a while…and now I'm at my peak."

Jared took a seat next to her on the bedspread. He gazed at her curiously.

"I don't know exactly what to think. But so far to my knowledge we have a little boy in our care, under our name…and we're under specific instructions to do something if…or when the family showed up. And now they have. And yeah, what Dean went on about earlier, how he reacted about his brother, about his dad…it's got me thinking that's something's not right."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. And now that I'm thinking more on it, the way with the father—it's just… something…something's off. I can't shake this feeling like there's more to this than just a regular business trip. Like…like he's keeping us in the dark about something—and you know how I feel about that."

Jared nodded. "I do. And I feel the same way. I keep trying to press Dean into telling me if he knows anything, but he remains firm…and he does come off as defensive like he's trying to protect his dad."

"You picked up on that too? Figures! If there is something else going on, he's not going to tell us."

"But…we're not going to interrogate him…or—"

"Oh heck no. That's just stupid. But this whole thing has really got me…okay for one: the dad left. I was under the impression he was going to stay. Visit every single day. Just like Dean, bring back old habits to get Sam's memory back. And I know a parent's job is important, but come on! This is ridiculous! I least expected him to call at least three times a day!"

Jared shrugged in defense. "Well, what do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know! But their old habits? They're a little weird!"

"How?" Jared asked confused, thinking back to the boardgames.

"We have salt Jared. _Salt_...lining our windows and doors. We have this defunktafied pentagram looking thing underneath our doormat? Am I the only dumbass around here that finds that a bit odd?"

That comment certainly had Jared scratching at his stubble. "No, I have to agree. That definitely racks up the weird points."

"Ya think?"

Eying the ceiling, somewhat relieved that someone else had said out his curiosities than him, Jared fell back against his pillows, continuing on listening to his wife rant.

And Hannah certainly wasn't done…not by a long shot. "Now I'm all for people's differences, idiosyncrasies, superstitions, or whatever. No problem," she huffed deeply, "…and I don't want to pass judgment on an eleven-year-old. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't appreciate being criticized."

"Is that why you're all riled up?"

"Not only. That little boy—Sam—came into our lives…and he was like a precious gift. And now we have another little boy to care for. And again I'm concerned about their well-being, about this whole thing! Because none of it is making sense…I'm not complaining about caring for Dean, I would never do that. He's a great kid, but I can't shake this feeling that something just not sitting right."

-

There couldn't have been a more perfect time for his bladder to announce to the world he really had to go. Dean fought relentlessly, commanding his inner sphincter muscles to do their job. But as the time ticked, and the pounding in his ears increased, it was a losing battle. He really didn't want to get up. He just wanted to remain invisible to the rest of the house, where no one knew of his existence. And traipsing towards the bathroom would certainly let the adults know he was still up.

Maybe if he made a quick trip—scuttling like a church mouse— his presence would go unnoticed? He hoped so, because he didn't want another conversation with Hannah like the one he had prior.

Content with that decision—his bladder ultimately not giving him a choice—Dean hurried out of bed. Tip-toeing as best he could, he made his way out the door and down the hallway. He had passed by the adult's bedroom door when the sounds of their frustrated voices forced him to freeze. They kinda sounded angry. Intrigued, Dean forgot about his imminent need to relieve himself and crept closer. Turning his good ear, it was hard in interpreting the muddled voices. When all else failed, he pressed his ear to the door, reading the vibrations, making out the voices. Then they became clear.

"…And Dean really scared me tonight."

He stiffened hearing Hannah say his name. Pressing his ear harder, he concentrated on what else was said.

"I mean you heard what he said in there, "You need discipline". What does that sound like to you?"

Jared didn't answer, but continued eyeing the floor, silently agreeing with her.

Hannah picked up on his mute answer, "Yeah. I mean what if…what if that man was trying to _discipline_ and it got out of hand?"

"I think you're just jumping to conclusions."

"Really? You heard what John said. Sam was kidnapped…okay? Is there anything else we need to know about? Have the dickwads been apprehended? What's going on with that? And why weren't we notified? I mean, if they had? Obviously they kidnapped Sam for a reason. So, are they going to try again?"

Dean breathing quickened. He wasn't sure if he wanted to eavesdrop anymore. All his current worries that he put to the side again now came back with a vengeance. He felt like he could drown in them.

"Well, I don't believe that their father did this," Jared voiced, "Maybe I'm just being arrogant, but I couldn't see that man having any malicious intent towards that child, or either of them. He didn't strike me that way."

"Alright, so this whole kidnapping scenario. Do you think it really happened? Do you think something did happen to Sam? They tortured him, beat him up? And if so, why? Why! He's just a kid!"

"Honey, you and I both know with this world, there are people who are more than capable of doing that…and there doesn't have to be a reason. People are crazy!"

"Oh I know. Trust me, I only have a Masters in the way people think," she interposed,

"But I still don't get why John didn't go to the cops. All of this could've been taken care of months ago."

Jared's eyebrows furrowed. "You're making it sound like you didn't want this to happen."

Hannah's eyes widened, surprised he said that. "Nononono. That's not what I meant. I just want the best for this little boy, for both of them. And I'm not entirely comfortable with the father at all. If he is a 'so-called' sales-rep, then why _the hell_ didn't he file a missing report when Sam went missing in the first place? I mean should we put Sam into a Protection Program?"

Jared couldn't look at her. He was completely stumped.

"He hasn't told us anything…So either I'm thinking that he's not a salesman, and could possibly be in the drug circuit…or he's doing something that's not exactly legal. I mean he's gotta be authority shy for a reason. You saw how his reaction when we told him about the foster care. Jared, you saw! All we said was CPS and he exploded."

Jared slowly shook his head, "Hannah, there can be so many reasons why he didn't go to the cops—"

"Right I know. And that just gets me even more worried, because what is that doing to his kids? What is that teaching them? And remember he told us specifically the last time he called, which was-hmmm, two weeks ago- not to call in yet. Wait until Sam gets his memory back first. _Why?_ I mean, does he not realize that we can get in trouble for this too? Does he even care?"

His fast-paced pants had not waned. Dean was growing increasingly frantic the more the Winslow's expressed their concern about his father. Never was there a time where the overwhelming sense of packing up his sibling and hitting the road appeared desirable like this one. Still with his curiosity lugging at him, he stayed by the door.

"I'm at a big loss of what to do right now," Hannah nearly sobbed, "I don't want to give Sam up. I don't…but I also don't want it to get to the point where he's taken from us. So I'm thinking what I'm going to do is to call anyway. I mean, they have to know the family has been found. And the longer we wait on this, the more _shit_ we're going to be stuck in. And I'm sure that with Sam's memory still on the fritz, they'll take that into consideration. And if they don't, we'll fight them on it. Besides Judge Patters has been a family friend for a long time. We'll run it by him."

Jared sighed. "I think you're right. I think maybe we should call…and explain everything."

"I mean, not to even call!" Hannah blustered, "No 'hey, how's it going? You guy's okay?' Nothing. He up and leaves. To me that sounds like something's going on. Seriously, how can you be calm about this?"

"Because you're freaking out enough for the both of us. I'm just trying to be passive here," Jared defended.

"I've noticed."

Dean couldn't listen anymore. His biggest fear was coming into play. The couple was interested…and could possibly find out the real reason for his dad's disappearance. And now with the thought that Hannah might actually call ahead. He wanted to vomit. Doing so, they really could lose Sam. If Sam didn't remember soon, it was leaning more and more into that direction. Uncertain of what he could do, he rapidly left.

-

"Hannah, just chill for a second," Jared demanded softly, wrapping his wife into an embrace. "I understand fully why you're upset. And you've made your point…and you're right. You're absolutely right. But think about it…"

Hannah gazed deeply into his tranquil eyes, wondering what insane logic was about to come forth. She stayed quiet, listening intently.

Jared licked his dry lips. "Everyone has issues and…and we don't know this guy. So there could be thousands of reasons why he comes off as he does. But the way he struck me…the way he came across about his kids…I can see he's not a bad guy. He's just looking out for them. Because if what he said happened to Sam and Dean, it wouldn't surprise me in the least bit if he was out there tracking those fuckers down."

"D'ya think?"

Jared shrugged. "If they're still out there? Cuz I'll tell ya something. If it was me and something like that happened to my kids, you can bet your sweet ass I'd be out there. Doing anything I possibly could to make my kids safe again."

Hannah smiled, partly relieved by his answer. It made her inner doubts come to a brief halt. And that was one of the main reasons why she loved him so…he was the only one who could put a leash on her when the time called for it. But it still wouldn't nullify the foreboding feeling she had. "Well, hopefully that won't ever have to happen. Even though, I'm still concerned about these kids—and us. I mean what if we've gotten ourselves involved in something that won't turn out good, y'know?"

"I know. But there's nothing we really can do," he whispered, caressing her cheek. He reached over and turned off the lamp. "Come on. Let's go to bed. We'll talk more about this in the morning."

"Okay. G'night hun."

**Alrighty than man! That's it for this chapter. The Winslow's are curious…and Dean feels like he's in the dog-house. Stay tuned as Dean's angsty mood doesn't end here. Plus there will be more Sam and Dean interaction in the next one. Hope you enjoyed. **

**P.S. Only a week left til Season 5 *Squee* !!!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Here ya go Dean girls! Lots and lots of angst with a bit of whump. And Dr. Chris is back and as eccentric as ever. Okay, since it is Labor Day weekend, I've decided to treat you with two chapters. Enjoy!**

It was a bright afternoon. The sun's rays shined mightily filtering through and creating a warm draft to sweep through the chilly autumn land. The rays felt good against Dean's cheek as he sat on the park's bench pondering. He looked out and saw his little brother over in the field kicking a soccer ball all to himself. There was hardly anyone else playing in the grass. Considering it were nine in the morning? That would explain it.

Sadly, Dean eyed the ground. A whole host of emotions raged through his mind. He wasn't sure which one he felt more. Sadness. Paranoia. Awkwardness. There was certainly a smidge of depression in there somewhere. Overall, there was a curtain of discomfort that blanketed him. He wanted to leave. He wanted his dad to call back.

It wasn't that he minded temporarily staying with the Winslow's. It was a rare luxury he knew he'd never have again—especially in Jared's basement. But there was this cumbersome sense that he felt like he didn't belong. It was disconcerting in the least; having grown-ups around all the time, caring, barely shouting orders. It felt foreign to him. No way would he become used to it.

It was a nice change. No doubt that he had a small freedom to be a kid again without stress over their life. But no responsibility? That even sounded weird. His sole responsibility was his brother…and with these people now, they took that from him. In a way, he felt like he didn't have a purpose anymore.

The more he thought about his brother, the more he fought hard against the building emotion. No matter what he did, Sam wasn't coming around. Sure, he'd play with him. Much like he would use to, but it just wasn't the same. There was like a mental block…or something that would keep Sam recognizing his old life. Surely, stepping on the salt by the door would have sparked something? No, it didn't. And he became increasingly agitated, mainly because he couldn't think of anything else to do. He'd sing. Dress him. Tickle him. Even called him some of his old nicknames. Still, the kid went on treating Dean like the kid who moved in next door.

Dean clenched his hands into his jacket. He was beyond frustrated. He didn't know what to do anymore. It was out of his control. And now with the Winslow's curious about their secret livelihood? He felt cornered, trapped. Like an animal caged up preparing for it's next beating. He wanted out. He wanted to get away. There were so many things he wanted…his dad to come back, the scratchy bed-covers at his old home, for things to be like they were. And mainly he wanted Sam to look up to him like he used to.

But as they say, you can't always get what you want. That was apparent! It seemed like his brother didn't want to have anything to do with him.

He was so immersed in his angst-ridden thoughts, he hadn't seen or heard Sam plop beside him on the bench out of breath. Bouncing his soccer ball in his lap, Sam piped, "Hey Dean."

Dean didn't answer, but stared glumly at the ground. Bucking in confusion, wondering if the boy had heard him, Sam called his name again.

Dean was suddenly brought out of his musings when he heard the familiar squeak. Noticing it was his brother, he replied gloomily, "Hey."

Sam kicked his legs back and forth. "It's really boring over there. But it's a lot of fun if we kick the ball to each other. Do you want to play?"

"No."

"Oh come on. You sure? Please! I know your leg is bad. But Mister Jared's leg is bad too. And he showed me what to do, so I can help you," Sam pressed innocently.

Dean's eyes glazed over. He was too far in his own depression to give a flying flip. "Go away Sammy."

Sam pursed his lips. "My name's not Sammy. I hate that."

"Just…go away."

Sam looked away, slightly hurt. He turned back to him noticing his disheartened expression. "Are you okay? You look sad."

"I'm fine," Dean grounded out.

"No you're not. You're not asking me a lot of questions like you normally do. So come on, Mr. Grumpy. Let's go play."

Dean rolled his eyes. Annoying little brothers. When will it ever end? He tried to stay quiet and ignore him. But when Sam began a litany of 'pleases' over and over again, he couldn't keep his peace any longer.

"SHUT UP! Go away! No I don't want to play with you. I don't want to be around you. Just leave me alone!"

Sam stood up with a deep look of hurt. "That was mean," Sam's lip trembled. Already the waterworks were spouting off in his eyes.

"I don't care," Dean spat. "If you don't like it, then why don't you go run off to your mama," he said out of pure jealousy.

A trail of heavy tears fell down the little cheeks. Sam turned and ran away crying out "I hate you."

Another onslaught of distraught crashed over Dean and he bowed his head down in despair. Instantly he berated himself for acting rash. He didn't mean to say that. It just ran away from him. He had wanted to get his brother back, and now it seemed like he just pushed him away all the more further. Immediately he got up and limped after him.

Sam ran for a good ways. The painful words Dean had relayed to him fueled his legs to pace faster. The tears making their way down his cheeks ran fluently, aided by the wind as he rushed by. He kept the ball close to his chest, as if it was his monument of solace. The park was no longer a place he wanted to be. The playground nearby had suddenly lost its appeal. He wanted to go home.

So engaged in his flight, Sam mistakenly ran into a group of older kids.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on there little donkey," one of the kids in a red shirt jeered, stopping him in his tracks. "Why the long face?"

Sam turned his tear-stained eyes on the bunch, noticing they were a foursome of hoodlums. All boys—probably fourteen or fifteen—encircled him, each with unkempt long tee-shirts, chains, and unclean faces and hair. A bum living in a cardboard box had a better appeal. He turned away not apt to sticking around.

"Hey. Speak when spoken to you little twit," another kid, taller than the first with an earring, said to him harshly, "Or did your mother skip out on that part?"

Sam didn't answer. The teenagers made him feel real uncomfortable.

"So you got any change?"

Sam shook his head.

"No? You got anything else in those pockets?" the first kid asked, poking him in the shoulder. Sam stepped away, but the other two mongrels stepped up, shoving him forward.

"Stop," Sam ordered, "I don't have anything."

"Then we'll take this instead," Earring grabbed at the ball in his hands.

Sam wrenched it out of the bully's reach. "No. It's my foster dad's."

"It's my _fwouster_ dad's," Earring mocked in a baby voice. "Don't care. Hand it over."

"No!"

"Look kid. Don't make this hard on yourself. You got nothing. We're bored and we want it. So give it over…or…I can see you need your other arm. You don't want this to get physical, do you?"

Sam sneered. Just because he was seven didn't mean he should have been scared to the point of submission. "Yeah, maybe I do," he rushed forward and kicked the guy in the shin.

The boy yelped at the touch, crouching down. Instantly the others advanced. Sam was surrounded. There wasn't a way out. The other boys heckled, jived, smacked at him, and kicked at the side of his tiny legs. One actually yanked at his hair, another coming forward to steal the ball.

"NO!" Sam screeched, scratching helplessly against the brute holding his head. He was in a mess. Thinking of no other, he called out, "DEAN!"

Dean came to a sliding stop when he saw his kid brother in a spot of trouble with a group of hooligans. Alarmed, he raced towards the dissonant commotion. An unmitigated sense of anger surged through him at the sight of those boys harassing Sam. He didn't care if they were older. He didn't care if he was outnumbered. His brother needed saving, and by God, he was going to be the hero today.

"Hey! Get off my brother," he bellowed the deepest sound he could muster. Though embarrassingly, it came out as a high pitched squeak instead. _Damn that pre-puberty stage!_

The punks all stopped, intrigued at the newcomer. Sam stared at him peculiarly…and relieved. Dean came hurtling at them as fast as his favored gait allowed. He stopped just brief in front of them. "Get away from him."

"Oh looky looky. A new play toy," the red-shirt hoodlum announced mischievously.

Dean sized him up, learning he was a good foot taller than him. But that didn't make him feel any less. You mess with one Winchester, you mess with them all. "Guess again, numb-nuts."

"Numb-nuts, huh?"

"Yeah!" Dean gritted out, swinging his good leg up between the boy's legs. The kid howled with fury, bending forward, where Dean easily forced his knee up and smashed it into the kid's nose.

Suddenly the other three came at him with fists raised. Dean, thinking of his little brother's safety flung him to the ground, missing the opportunity of ducking. Earring's fist made contact with the side of his temple. He jutted back, clutching the side of his head from the throbbing, though luckily his hearing aid stuck in. Blinking through it, he looked up and saw the miscreants coming for more. Resorting to his regular tactics, even with his injuries, Dean went to combat mode.

He punched, kicked, bit, and hopped, throwing whatever maneuver he could think of. Flares sprung up in his battered leg. The side of his head pulsated so harshly, he swore there was a Metallica mosh pit bouncing around in there. Hissing through the pain, Dean continued on, blocking and fighting—just as his father had trained him.

The fight was nearly over. The boys almost looked like they had had enough. But soon, he became outmatched. The red-shirt guy regained his stance and came behind him, kicking at the inside of his bad leg. He went down like weighted concrete, hollering at the painful strike. Looking around, he couldn't find his brother anywhere. If the kid was smart, he'd have taken off.

With that in mind, Dean no longer fought valiantly. Instead, he curled in a ball, riding out and enduring the stomps and kicks the hooligans were administering. Pain was everywhere. But it was all for his brother. He'd have it no other way.

"You've had enough? You think you're betta than all of us? Ha!" Earring spat, then chuckled at his remark. His chortle ended promptly when a soccer ball struck him in the back of his head. He turned around in time for Sam to swing a heavy stick, his little frame could carry. The force knocked him to his knees, leaving a mighty welt on his cheek. Dazed, the bully fell over. The other boys stopped their assault on Dean and made their way to Sam. Though he was in way over his head, the little boy hadn't faltered. He gripped his stick tighter, gazing at the three dangerously.

"Ooh. Ooh. Ooh, tough guy all of a sudden, huh?"

Sam remained still. He could see in his peripheral vision Dean staggering to his feet, shaking his head. The three stalked forward, all with malicious grins. Sam looked again and saw Dean standing awkwardly, listing to the side a bit.

"You want to try that little stunt on us kid?" Red-shirt guy snarled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught the raised arm, and the wink action Dean gave him before placing a finger on his nose. Instantly understanding the signal—though not quite sure how—Sam smirked. "Not it," he replied tossing the large stick high over the kids head. The boys followed the stick to the other kid who caught it gracefully. Without another pause, Dean swung the stick hard, knocking all three down in three graceful strokes. The stick vibrated roughly in his hands as a testament to how powerful the blows were.

When all the hooligans were down and out for the count with lovely protruding bumps on their heads, Dean tossed away the stick. Motioning for Sam to come to him, he was surprised when the little tyke barreled into him, giving him an air-tight hug. He gasped, cringing at the soreness emanating from his mid-riff.

Panting heavily, he asked, "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" Sam shrieked, "Have you seen yourself lately?"

Dean laughed a little, ceasing at the acute sear in his side. "No. B-but come on," he grimaced, "Let's get out of here."

"Thanks Dean," Sam said gratefully, briefly releasing him to gather Jared's ball before adhering to his side once again.

"No problem," Dean answered breathlessly, limping onward. The adrenaline coursing through him earlier slowly drifted near depletion levels, and he could start to feel every punch, kick, you name it. Luckily his brother was holding him, otherwise he'd have take a plunge. "Stupid dudes. Think they are so macho in roughing up little kids. Idiots. Well, it just goes to show, know your enemies first before you take them head on."

Sam nodded, agreeing with him. "You're a good fighter."

"What? Dude, speak up a little," he pointed at the ear still in tact.

"I said you're a good fighter," Sam called louder.

"Oh, uh, thanks. But next time…when you get in trouble, run."

"Okay. But Dean?" Sam let go.

"Yeah?" Dean gazed at him, wondering why Sam was using his strategy of imploring deeply into his eyes looking for an answer.

"You called me your brother," he cocked his head to the side, "Am I your brother?"

This was it: _the moment of truth._ Dean's mouth opened and closed, clearly speechless in that ridiculously spot-on moment. He didn't know what to say. Anything at this point could've either gone north or south. "Uh, what do you think?"

Sam donned a smile. "Nah, I think you're too uptight to be my brother. Too boring."

"What!"

"Well you are. You're always messing with cars and always asking me stuff that I don't know. It's really annoying!"

Dean rolled his eyes, taking a seat on the grass, beginning to message little circles in the tender flesh. His leg was beginning to kill him. "Sorry."

Sam also took a seat in front of him.

"And…" he began tentatively, "And I'm also sorry…for what I said to you earlier. It was mean."

Sam shrugged. "It's okay. You were in a bad mood."

Dean huffed. Clutching his side, he bowed his head down. "Yeah…It hasn't been good for me lately…And I know Hannah's not your mom…but um, but um…I'm glad you think she is. You deserve it more than anybody."

Confused, Sam asked. "Where's your mom?"

It was hard for Dean to speak. Swallowing his pride, he answered, "In…in heaven. She died when I was four."

"Do you remember her?"

"A little. And I try so hard every damn day to keep those memories. I miss her so much," his lip trembled.

Sam leaned forward. "Sorry Dean. Now I don't know if anyone has ever told you this, but I actually lost my memory a long time ago. Mrs. Hannah and Mr. Jared took me in. I…I don't know if I had parents before," he started to tear up, "I can't remember anything, just my name. But they are like my real parents. I like them a lot."

Dean smiled. "That's good to hear Sammy."

"Why do you keep calling me that? It's annoying!"

"Sorry Sam. It's just that…I still have hope."

"Hope for what?"

"Nothing," Dean shook his head, "I'll stop calling you that. I just want to be your friend that's all."

Sam grinned mightily, unknowingly scratching at his side. "Okay—ouch! Hey, why'd you pinch me?"

Dean looked around confused. "Huh? I didn't."

"Ow! Sam cried again at the sharp little pinpricks over his back. "Stop it," he jerked to the side.

"Sam, what are you talking about? I'm over here," Dean raised both hands signaling that he was not the culprit.

"Then what—Ouch," he smacked his hand.

Still befuddled, Dean looked down. That's where he saw little red dots moving across his brother's hand. Then it dawned on him. "Sam, get up now. Now! You're sitting in a pile of fire ants."

"Wh-ahhhhh," Sam screeched flying to his feet, where he began to hop up and down, smacking haphazardly at his body. "Get 'em off! Get 'em off!"

"Hold still!" Dean painfully scrambled to his feet.

But Sam wasn't able to stop squirming. "Ahhh, they're in my hair!" and he took off running.

"Sam, stop," Dean cried, taking off after his brother.

-

Dean sat shaking on his bed in tears. This was not his day, and he didn't care who knew it. Along with new bruises and abrasions from his earlier scuffle, his old injuries flared unceremoniously. His right arm hurt terribly. His leg felt like he was sitting on a hot grill. He swore he would much rather take on fifty-thousand rounds of fire ants than deal with the fiery sensations. He clutched Sam's teddy-bear to his chest. A thousand scenarios flooded through his head. He really wanted to leave now. The window on the far side of the room looked real appealing.

He and his brother returned to the Winslow's home shortly after their dramatic excursion—his brother running in place forming circles from the fire ants, and he…well, hunched over and brutally bruised. The first thing Jared had done was thrown Sam into the bath, clothes and all. The first thing Hannah had wanted was to take Dean to a nearby clinic. And that's where Dean practically fell apart and became hysterical. The thought of doctors and large facilities made him shake in his boots. The flashes of the pain and awkwardness from his last hospital visit gave proof to that. He ran to his room and never came out.

No matter how hard the Winslow's tried. No matter what bribe. That boy was not coming out. So they figured to bring in the next best thing.

"Hey Big Mouth. Glad you can make it," Hannah greeted her best friend at the door.

"Oh it's no problem," Chris hugged her, curious at the lack of her infamous death-hugs she normally provided. "I like taking emergency road-trips. Keeps me young and energetic."

"Oh good. You're gonna need that energy," she muttered.

Chris gaped at her peculiarly, walking alongside her into the livingroom. "Hey Sam. How's it going buddy?" he asked seeing Jared sitting opposite of the little boy dotting Calamine lotion on his face.

"Hi Dr. Chris. The fish is still there," Sam piped raising his cast.

Chris smiled. "Goody. Glad my doodling art seems determined to last forever. You'll be happy to know soon that thing will be able to come off."

"Yay! Because it's itchy," Sam kicked his legs jovially, scratching absently at the plaster.

"Hey Chris," Jared called out recapping the lotion bottle. "Did Hannah tell ya?"

"Uh no. Tell me what?" he looked back at her.

"Get your med kit. We need to go upstairs," Hannah whirled around, heading towards the stairs.

To say he was more confused than a mouse participating in a rat race would have been a major understatement. Chris took the hint at Jared's and Sam's nods and followed his friend up the stairs. She led him down the hallway to the farthest room. Knocking on the door, she called out "Dean, honey. I'm coming in." Walking in, she said, "I brought a friend of mine. And he's a doctor."

Suddenly Chris's ears were assaulted by a maelstrom of loud noises— cries. He walked in and saw a little boy with his knees curled up to his chest, rocking frantically. "No more doctors. Please. I hate em'. No more. No more," he cried.

"Dean, please. You're hurt and you need to get your injuries checked. We won't go to a hospital, that's why I brought Chris," Hannah tried to explain.

"NO! No, I can't. Just please, don't!" he pleaded.

Chris was suddenly perturbed. "Uh Dean? Dean is it? I work at a children's hospital and you can ask everyone there, I'm not rough," he grimaced seeing the frantic child begin to tremble. "It's okay. If you're hurting, I can help you."

The boy's agitation grew all the more intense. "NO! GO AWAY! GO AWAY! I just want my dad!"

The doctor and the foster mom didn't know what else to do but leave. Hannah quietly closed the door, giving her friend an emphatic expression. "I'm hoping you know how to handle this type of thing. He got into a skirmish today with a group of teenagers and he was terribly injured before. I'm afraid that they might have worsened. Chris?"

Her friend appeared high-strung in a state of perplexity. "Whoa. Whoa. Back up! Rewind! What's going on here? Who's the kid? What about previous injuries? Before I do anything, a little explanation would be nice!"

Hannah bit her lip, chiseling her teeth. "Uh…he's a little boy. His name is Dean. And he's been staying with us for the past two weeks."

"Uh huh. And where did this Dean come from?"

Hannah sighed deeply. "Okay. At this point, I'm gonna have to come clean. There's no other choice. But promise me you won't freak out."

Chris's curiosity climbed up on the exponential scale. "Okay, shoot," he droned watching

Hannah lick her lips religiously.

"Um…he's um, he's Sam's brother."

The doc's eyes instantly became bug-eyes. "Say what again in English."

"He's Sam's brother, his family. They found us…or we found them," she enlightened,

"He has a brother and a father. It turns out before we found Sam, he was kidnapped. Somewhere in down-state California…and the father searched frantically, and only just found him now."

"Holy crap on a fickle stick! Are you serious?"

"'Fraid so."

Chris huffed, while smiling. "The family has been found. I don't believe it. Okay?

Putting two and two together, you said Dean has previous injures?"

Hannah nodded.

"Then I'm guessing it wasn't just Sam who was injured that night. Are Dean's just as old as Sam's?"

"I don't know…I guess."

"Ooh. Well, that can either be a good thing or a really bad thing. I'm unsure at this point—and I can see Dean is incredibly hysterical, probably traumatized," he scratched at his chin, "Well, that explains the no hospitals and why you called me in."

"Hmmm hymph. I didn't know anybody else."

"Alright that's fine. I'll Q and A you later. The problem right now is we gotta get him to calm down. He doesn't like me or you at the moment. So let me ask you this, does Sam remember his brother?"

"No."

"Ew. That's nice…hmmm," Chris replied sarcastically before pausing, thinking hard, "Okay? Now let me ask you this: Does Sam get _along_ with this long lost brother slash stranger?"

-

It had been a good while since Hannah and the doctor left. Dean's sobs eventually dulled to occasional sniffles. The pain he felt earlier had not receded, and he was afraid it might never dissipate. Perhaps it might have been a good thing to swallow his pride for once. He didn't want to deal with the pain anymore. But just the thought of a doctor examining him again had him more freaked out than a claustrophobic person sitting in a closet.

Soon the door opened again. He tensed, fearing it might be the adults. But his fear instantly quelled when he saw his brother come in looking like a pink Dalmatian.

"Hey Dean," Sam said climbing onto the bed. "Are you okay?"

Dean sniffled, blinking back the moisture in his glossy eyes. "Yeah."

"No you're not. You're crying. What's the matter scaredy-cat?"

Dean scowled. "I'm not a scaredy-cat."

"Then what do you call it?"

He didn't answer, but continued to cling onto the teddy-bear. Sam snuggled in closer to him. On a small scale, he appreciated it tremendously.

"Did you know I don't like doctors too?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

"You did?"

"I mean, no," he wiped at his eyes.

"Well I really don't like 'em. But I like Dr. Chris. He drew on my cast, see?" he raised his arm, showing Dean the drawing of the smudged fish. "And I was really hurt a long time ago too. But he made it all better."

Dean leaned closer, peering into Sam's bright green eyes.

"I was scared. But he made it so much fun. I kinda like hospitals now. Did you know they give out free ice cream?" he asked, forcing Dean to laugh a little. "So you know, you might be scared, but you won't feel a thing."

"I'm not scared," Dean said, trying to pull out his macho reserve.

"Uh huh. Prove it," Sam challenged.

Sending the little tyke a look of loathing, he nodded. "Fine. You sure it won't hurt?"

"I promise," Sam said, "And I'll be here with you."

"Okay," Dean agreed while Sam went to fetch the good doc.

Soon the man came back in putting on a good Patch Adams display, allowing the kid to warm up to him. Eventually Chris examined his injuries. The new ones. The old ones. And concluded that none were detrimental. All the while Sam stayed huddled next to his big brother, giving him reassurance the whole time. Dean came to enjoy the doctor's playful antics. He calmed down considerably, so happy to be so close to his baby brother again. He even allowed the doc to give him a shot of pain medicine. Soon the effects of the medicine began taking the edge off and he drifted off into a quiet pain-free slumber—with Sam lying, curled beside him.

-

After thoroughly examining his patient, Chris left the two slumbering boys quietly, rejoining the other adults in the living room.

"Thanks Chris. Can't tell ya how much we appreciate this," Hannah acknowledged, taking a seat by her husband.

"It was no problem. There were no breaks. Just mainly bruises. And they should heal just fine. Give him at least three Children's Tylenol every six to ten hours and he should be fine," he informed plopping down in the sofa chair.

"Again thanks."

"Yeah. Um, guys? I don't mean to make this into a proverbial interrogation session, but you gotta talk to me. Because I'm more than just the regular confused," he scratched his head, "Why do I get the feeling that there is more to it than this about to be off-record?"

Hannah huffed. "Man nothing gets around you, does it?"

"Nope! That's why they call me God," he retorted sarcastically.

"Uh…Chris, the only thing we can tell you is that we're kinda in a bind right now."

"Bind as in…what do you mean?"

"Meaning the CPS doesn't know about this."

Chris jerked, not sure if he heard correctly. "Come again?"

Jared sat forward. "Meaning the authorities don't know we found the family yet. It was a decision on our part and on the father's."

"Yeah, whom I've noticed is sort of MIA at the moment. What do you mean decision? What decision?"

"Only for us to call if Sam were to get his memory back."

Chris's jaw dropped. It would have been comical had the moment not been so serious. He remained silent, not at all digesting the information well.

"I mean John and Dean came in and still he hasn't recognized them," Hannah spoke eagerly, "Dean has been here for two weeks, non-stop, always bringing back old habits, talking to him, but still nothing has worked. And if we call, they're immediately going to hand him back over. And that won't be good for Sam. So that was the agreement, we wouldn't call until Sam got his memory back."

The doc's jaw never left the floor. "Oh. My. Gideon's! Guys. Holy cow, that's such a bad idea," he covered his face with his hands.

"Chris, there wasn't any other choice!"

"Hannah, seriously! Okay, okay first off I agree with you. Getting Sam's memory back makes perfect sense. Absolutely," he exclaimed, "But you have to look at it in their perspective. If it's been two weeks and you haven't called yet, already you're in hot water. They're gonna instantly think that was a violation of the contract. And who knows what they might do. And if you let this thing go on…I don't even want to think of the repercussions for that."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Jared asked.

Dr. Chris thought long and hard. "I…I really don't know. But in my experience, at this point, you got two choices. Either you call them tonight—or tomorrow morning and tell them the family has been found, suffer their wrath and take full responsibility—"

"But what if we explained ourselves?"

"Hannah, you know these people, especially in this neck of the woods. Krill has a much better chance fighting against a humpback."

Her face fell. Jared leaned forward. "What was the other option?"

"Or…" Chris said seriously, "…or you tell Dean to call his dad and they high-tail it—and you never saw them. I know this is not what you want to hear, and I even hate myself for suggesting it. But…you're meddling in deep shit right now. And I can pretty much guarantee you, you won't like the outcome."

"Chris we've talked about this, again and again," Hannah piped. "We wanted to call, because we're growing more scared by the minute. But we don't know where the father is, and we're afraid if we call and tell them that, they might think…" she sighed, "I don't know what they might think, but they'll take them both away."

"Hannah?"

"Chris please!"

The friend shook his head. "No. Hannah stop. Don't drag me into this." He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and down the sides of his face before continuing, "I can't make the decision for you. And it's gonna be tough. But I'm gonna tell ya this once, you gotta do something soon. Because what if a worker were to pop in unexpectantly and just happened to find another little boy here? Questions are gonna be asked and then the shit is gonna hit the fan."

Both Hannah and Jared gazed at the floor. The doc's words weren't comforting in the least.

"But also too," he went on, "…and I'm telling you this as a friend, because I love you guys. You gotta prepare yourselves. Because at this point, either way, you're gonna lose Sam."

At that, Hannah's world shattered.

**Sooo, was it nice and angsty? The boys had a bit of trouble with those teenagers, eh? But in the end they always do make a good team. Hope it was okay. Gear up for the next one, it's gonna be a wild ride, containing what most of you have been waiting for. **


	17. Chapter 17

**Here's the next one. Get your helmets and seatbelts on. This chapter is a bit of a ride.**

Early one afternoon, John sat in his beloved Impala, thinking. His mood over the past two and a half weeks had not lightened. Along with his fellow hunters, he searched endlessly, sleeping in shifts, practically running on fumes. They weren't any closer in locating the bastards and the kids than they had a month ago. Whilst the other hunters were getting some rest not too far from his location, he needed some space. Now only a couple counties over from the Winslow's, he parked the car needing some time to think.

Since the awful decision of leaving his kids behind while he took on this insane quest, they set out tracking any lead possible—producing nothing! A certain chagrin formed over his failure. Mainly because during that period two more children, a girl named Ava and a boy named Max, were discovered, malnourished, and in the same condition as the others. It was unnerving to say the least—partly because they were found so close to his boy's current location. If they couldn't find the kids soon, then this exhausting endeavor would be for nothing.

After two and a half weeks, with the stress that accumulated, John needed to release it. He figured putting in a call to his boys would have done that. Placing the call first thing that morning, it was a blessing to hear his son Dean's voice. Though comforted to know that Dean was beginning to get along, it was disheartening to learn that Sam had not pulled through. He felt the frustration for his child, knowing how Dean reacted when he failed at something…especially something so important.

Disappointed, John felt he could do nothing else but to encourage his son to continue to try. And that was when Dean dropped the ball about the Winslow's expressing their concern. He realized that after so long, it was inevitable. They were good people, who deserved to know what they were involved in. But he flat out refused to tell them the truth. They didn't deserve that much. And it only built on the stress for that morning…because soon if he hadn't finished what he started, he had a feeling more trouble lurked ahead.

Telling his son that he'll contact him later, he ended the call, leaving the other hunters immediately after. He had to drive. Driving was one of his stress-relievers—like a classic stress-ball on wheels. Pulling over sometime later, he began to have a little mental tête-à-tête with himself.

The love he had for his boys, nothing would ever surpass that—not even his revenge-driven obsession. It stung terribly with what happened to them, nearly killing him in the process. The newly wrought chain forged after Sammy's discovery barely held together. The weakness he felt only fueled his ambition to track down the bastards. And even if he were to find them, slaughter them unmercifully, then what? What would be next? The monster that killed his wife? The other injustices in this world? What?

The point being that it would never end. His obsession for hunting could never be put on hold. Sure, it could be for a tiny fraction, but not for good. His mistake was allowing it to consume him—affecting his children. He didn't want his boys to grow up in this life. It wasn't fair. And now since they're aware of the dangers out there, he felt in the beginning it was pertinent.

Only now it's different. Sam's memory lapse was a major detour in his plan for preparation. He was afraid if it hadn't returned yet; at this stage, it might never return. And his baby boy was just another civilian to care for. He heard all that has been happening over the last few weeks and, even though Dean had a somewhat rough time, Sam was great. They were experiencing their own slice of normality. It pained him to know that his baby was incredibly happy—and that Dean was slowly warming up. He thought about it. And thought…and thought. Thinkin perhaps…

Perhaps he should leave them there, allow them to grow up normal, to keep their innocence. With two parents. Ones that will care and love deeply. Not only would it resolve the future problems with the CPS. But giving up sole custody to the Winslow's, it would allow them to give what he couldn't. He knew his eldest wouldn't go quietly. But he will stay with his brother—because that was what Dean would do. Besides, it would give them the chance to be safe.

He hated himself for suggesting it. But the safety and protection of his children overruled any other imminent need. If he could give them that, then he would. This life of hunting will never end for him…but what if it could for them?

-

The two boys were having a good day. It hadn't taken Dean long to convince Sammy to take a stroll outside again. It was good for the mind and soul…and skin. Because according to Dean, Sam was beginning to make the ghosts look bad. With no where else to go, they left for the park again—only keeping an eye out for the bullies.

The day couldn't have been any better. For the end of September, it was surprisingly hot. Hot enough for them to take a dip in the nearby community pool. Immediately jumping in their clothes and tennis shoes, they were reprimanded for forming cannon-balls and splashing half of the unsuspecting loungers. The lifeguard was even more blustered when one of Sam's shoes came off and had to conduct a search party for it—only to find it under the diving board. To which Dean went to retrieve it, accidentally scaring the shit out of the fat kid on the board, making him believe the board was alive and talking.

They immediately ran after that. Still drenched, they ran towards the fields sprinklers and ran back and forth, laughing and crying over the tense spray.

"Bet cha' can't catch me," Sam teased his brother taking off.

"Hey, that not fair! You know I have a disadvantage," Dean complained.

"Then I'll limp too," Sam replied taking off in a favored stride.

Dean shook his beginning to chase after the pseudo-gimp. "I'm gonna getcha! I'm gonna getcha!

"No you can't!"

"Oh yes I can," Dean launched forward. Sam let out a strangled cry seeing that the boy gained on him. Immediately breaking his gait, he scurried away. The boys continued to chase each other for a good while. Until, the ache in both their calves and the stitch in their sides sang so loud, it forced them to stop. Out of breath, they staggered to the park bench.

Sitting down, they exchanged glances and suddenly both launched into giggle fits. Oxygen deprivation and adrenaline rushes typically did that to a person. Their giggle fits increased ten-fold, both looking like Veggie Tale tomatoes, each grabbing at their insides.

Soon the laughing attacks came to a snickering end. They stayed on the bench overlooking the rest of the park, panting heavily. That's when Dean looked over and saw Sam's eyes droop. _Must be nearly noon!_

"Come on, you wanna go home?" he asked.

His little brother blinked slowly, letting out a long yawn. "N-n-no…I'm good."

Dean smiled. "Come on kiddo, let's go. It's almost nap-time, and I don't feel like carrying you," he took his hand. Stepping out, not realizing his shoelaces had become loose, he accidentally tripped, which caused him to fall sprawled out on the ground.

And that was it!

_The trigger. _

The sight of Dean sprawled the same way the boy in the bathroom had lain sparked a series of images. Sam backed up wide-eyed. Flashes suddenly began traveling a mile a second flitting through his head.

Flash.

_Dean broken and bloody on the floor. _

Flash.

_The two men who took him. _

Flash.

_His father. _

Flash.

_Tid bits of his dismal life, the different schools, the many hotels_

...They kept going in one big goopy mess.

Dean peered up at his brother concerned when he heard him gasp and there he saw Sam's eyes swiveling back and forth a million times a minute as though he were reading an invisible note. Tears began making their way down Sam cheeks in a steady rhythm.

"Sammy?" he approached him.

Sam didn't move, but continued to cry, his mind still enduring the crunch of memories flooding back to him.

"Sammy?" Dean grasped his shoulders, shaking them slightly. Slowly he lowered him to the ground when he felt Sam's leg buckle. "Come on Sammy talk to me!"

After a long moment, Sam looked at him. And there was finally a hint of recognition in those green eyes. "Dean?"

"Sam?"

"Dean?" he cried out, more tears fell.

"Sammy," Dean called his name again, still unsure of what to do.

"Dean!" Sam wrapped his arms around him, "You're alive!"

"You remember? Sam, did your memories come back?"

The boy nodded in the crook of his arm. Dean sighed hugging him further, kneeling his head down on his brother's head, fighting back tears. "Oh my God." _About damn time!_

Sam backed up. "But you...you—"

"I'm here," Dean peered at him softly.

Sam lifted his hand and pulled back the tufts of Dean's hair finding the scar on his head.

He gasped. "Dean…everything. I remember everything. I'm so sorry big brother. I'm so sorry," he hugged him again squeezing Dean's still sore mid-riff.

"It's okay. It's okay. There's nothing for you to be sorry about." Dean rubbed his scalp.

"Dean. The bad guys. The bad guys…they…" Sam sobbed. "Dean!"

"Shhh. It's over now. They won't hurt you. They're not here. You're okay."

"But dad! Where's dad?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know. He's still looking for them," he tried to reassure.

"Daddy…" his little brother continued to sob. "I want daddy."

"I know. He'll be back soon, I promise," Dean continued to hold onto his distraught brother. All his worries. All his hurts. Every one of them vanished in that moment. He was a big brother again…and that was all that mattered.

-

As John continued to meddle in his thoughts, a large black van rolled up beside the Impala. One of the guys hung out of the passenger window, whistling to catch his attention. John glared out of the open window. The burly man, unfazed by the man's sinister look, pulled out a flyer, one of the missing posters with Sam's picture on it.

"Hey pal. Have you seen this kid?"

John reached for his gun in his pocket, instantly recognizing the man. Infuriated, he said, "Yeah. That's my son."

There was an awkward pause before the screech of the tires was heard. Alarmed, the scumbags drove off. Yanking on the Impala's gear shaft, John sped after them. The van raced past the suburbia houses, skidding around the corners. The losers were fast, but not fast enough for John's 327 horsepower. The Impala caught up to them within a few seconds, riding their bumper.

He stomped down so hard on the gas pedal, it was a wonder why his foot hadn't crashed through the floorboard. His anger, fogging up his judgment, had him plow the front end of the Impala into the back end of the end. It had to be slightly demented, but he hadn't felt so much excitement as he did now. The bad guys were in his sight. And they weren't going to get away.

The van flew at inconceivable speed, right into oncoming traffic. Several cars and trucks slid to a halt, all at several angles avoiding the collision. John applied the brakes just in time before a Honda Accord made another permanent dent into the bumper. Screaming at the people to get out of the way, John growled pressing on the gas—knocking the immobile vehicles out of the way. The van was a ways ahead. Once out of the clearing, he pushed the Impala well over seven thousand RPM, threatening to blow its transmission.

He didn't care. He couldn't allow the perps to get away. The car zoomed ahead, gaining a short distance and right on the van's trail. He saw the bastards turn down a wooded road. He quickly followed. Keeping a good pressure on the gas pedal, John sped up beside the other vehicle. Turning on the wheel, he crashed the front end on its side…not once, but three times. His goal was to force them to lose control. However, the van straightened out. He had to give it to the driver, he kept it going.

Losing his patience, John sped up faster on the passenger side. Picking up his gun from the seat, he aimed it at the tires. Two quick shots was all it took. The front and side tires popped like balloons, the van immediately swerving from side to side. For the second time, John pressed on the brakes in time for the van to upturn and slide amongst the sodden ground, barely scraping the Impala's scrunched end.

As his beloved car screeched to a halt, John leapt from his vehicle with pulsating rage and made his way to the upturned van. The guy who asked about the poster, he recognized as Scrieber, was pulling his buddy from the shattered windshield. Caught by surprise, the man let out a great 'oomph' when John tackled him to the ground.

Sitting on top of the miscreant's chest, John pinned him with his weight, beginning to swing bone-cracking punches. He swung mightily, letting out his pent-up anger. The guys face soon was well bruised, cracked, and bloody. John's hands were well damaged, but he kept going, not stopping until the bastard was within an inch of his life.

The sound of cracking caught his attention and he looked up in time to see the partner with an eye-patch swing a crowbar. Raising his hand, he caught the bar in his palm, quickly yanking it from the guy's hand. Swiftly moving it around, he swung it upwards colliding it with the man's skull. The guy plummeted to the ground in a mangled heap.

His mind reeling in hatred, swirling in temporary insanity, John raised the bar over his head. "You sonuvabitch. You did this to my family. Used this on my boy's head. Well, how would you like it when I return the favor?" he brought it down harshly overtop of Scrieber's head, and raised it again for a second time, eager for the kill.

The swing never came. The sound of a gunshot went off and John felt a God-awful sting explode next to his shoulder blade. The force launched him off his intended victim. Clutching his shoulder, he rolled over to see two other men approach…the same two fellas he met up with in Idaho, Shaggy's bodyguards. One quickly advanced with a nine millimeter. John glimpsed to the side and saw a white GMC truck. How was it he didn't hear it arrive?

Without a chance, the burly black man came forward and placed a large boot on his chest, pushing him down in the wet grass. Pointing the gun at his head, he pulled the glock back just as Scrieber's partner announced, "Kill him."

John's eyes widened as his life flashed before his eyes.

**Uh oh, there I go again! A nice little cliffy after so long. And gosh, John had just decided to leave his kids with good people, and now Sammy gets his memory back. Impeccable timing! Stay tuned to see if John makes it or not! Now don't kill me…well it's not my fault. There won't be an update at least until Tuesday, because the library is closed all weekend, including Monday. With that said, have a great Labor Day weekend! Leave those reviews, I'll get to them when I can! Peace!! :p**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hey there! Okay, get ready for the heavy-hearts cuz this chappie is a gut-wrencher. I'm sorry I couldn't help it. Either way, it was going to be sad. Sorry Parinumal07, it will get better after this…I swear! You may or may not like it, it's definitely not one of my best, but here goes! Cheers! **

Once John heard the sound of the glock and the order of his execution, he knew then either his kids were going to be orphans…or he somehow had to foil their plans.

_Hmmm…choice number two sounded good._

With the monstrous boot pinning him down, there wasn't any other choice but to roll. The black man pulled the trigger. John side-lifted his head a split-second just as the bullet miraculously skimmed his hair-line. A mini-geyser of dirt and mud launched spraying in the man's eyes. He leapt back yowling and rubbing intensely at his corneas.

John took a short breath, partially stunned at how close to death he became. Immediately he gained his footing. Stalking up to the man, he kicked him good in his gut, stealing the gun out of his hands and swiped the but-end twice across his temples. The brute went down like a wrecking ball. The ground rumbled softly from his fall.

His shoulder seared terribly. But he didn't have time to think about it as the buck-tooth moron—who has been helping Scrieber to the truck—let go, leaving him with Eye-Patch, and came at him wielding the crowbar. With one mighty swing, the gun was knocked from his hands. Buck-tooth immediately pulled out his nine-millimeter. Not taking any chances, John took off towards the woods.

_Oh, feet don't fail me now!_

Shots rang out all around him. Parts of trees exploded, showering him in waves of saw-dust. His boots slipped and glided amongst the muddy slope. He ran faster. Shouts and more gunshots reverberated through the timberland, coming closer. It only propelled his legs to move faster. Soon the slope ended, giving way to a short cliff towering over a murky river below.

The water swirled and churned with a turbulent force, guided over several large boulders and tree roots. He'd probably have a snowball's chance in Hell trying to survive that. Even if he were to somehow avoid the rocks, the water had to be frigid. Hypothermia would no doubt set in within minutes.

Another geyser of dirt spouted off beside his foot. The enemy was closing in.

_Hypothermia it was…_

Without any more hesitation, he jumped off the crag. For a short second, he was weightless, free-falling, his stomach swarming with butterflies. The next second, his feet smashed into the murky depths below, plunging him down several feet. The icy waters enveloped his body. Sharp spiky throbs clouted everywhere.

Pain…

Confusion…

Weightlessness…

His mind ran blank after a few minutes of being submerged. The current moved swiftly taking him with it. His mind being absentee and all didn't help. After swallowing a couple gulps of the nasty bacteria-infested waters, it finally registered that he was still below surface. Becoming accustomed to the sudden shock of the water, he kicked furiously towards the surface. His head broke after a few seconds—though it seemed longer. He coughed and spluttered, choking on the salty contents.

The current moved fast. Taking in several deep breaths, he looked around and saw to his pleasure the bad guys were no longer a threat. His teeth began to chatter a second later. Whirling around, he fanned his arms out, kicking his legs, swimming towards the dry land.

His muscles screamed at the agony put on them. Once breaking through the rough current, he eventually crawled onto the muddy embankment. The pain never abated. He wanted to think every bone in his body was broken; everything seemed to be on fire. He shouldn't have survived that fall…but he wasn't complaining.

It had to have been a good while before the fiery pangs subsided to bearable aches. The afternoon sun had set and the scores of twilight were beginning to shine. It came time where he had to head back, alert the others. Sucking up whatever stamina he had left, he trudged out of the mud and stumbled along the bank, hopefully back to his car.

Luckily the car was left beside the van when he arrived back. The morons were long gone, nothing but the ruts of their tires left. As quickly as he could, he made his way back to the Impala, not entirely surprised to see its contents rummaged through.

_Great, now the bad guys knew his name. This just keeps getting better and better. _

Entirely miffed that his identity was now known and equally pissed that they bastards had managed to get away, he hopped into his vehicle and sped off towards the motel. Now was the time to act and the guys had to be prepared.

-

"Jeez, watch it," he hissed as a whole bout of hydrogen peroxide doused his wound.

"Sorry Johnny, you know the drill. Now hold still," Pastor Jim ordered procuring a pair of tweezers off the nightstand. "You got a lot of gunk in here and it's gotta be cleaned."

John growled, shirtless, and hunched over while his friend patched him up.

Bobby and Caleb on the other end of the motel stared at him, stewing over the recent turn of events.

"So you're saying there are more than just the two bastards Dean said there were?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah. Our friends from Idaho," he gasped. "I don't know if Shaggy fed them the tip or not. He wasn't with them. But…GOD!" he exclaimed when Jim poured some more peroxide over the raw wound. He dribbled his lips, breathing over the searing spikes.

Caleb let out a long sigh. "Well, should we say we're surprised? Hey, you wouldn't happen to have gotten their plate number, did ya?"

That put a smile on John's face. "Actually I did."

"Oh good," Caleb beamed, "Then maybe meeting our friends was a good thing after all. We can put in a trace, trying to pin-point the truck's last location. I can get right on that."

"Sure," John nodded giving him the plate number. Caleb wrote it down, pulling out his cell and stepping outside. John turned back to Bobby. "In the mean time, I have to get my kids out of here."

"What about the Winslow's? What the CPS and all that?" Bobby asked.

John sighed, thinking hard. "I need to get custody back now. Jim, how long do you think that will take with the court system?"

His friend shrugged, placing a heavy pad of gauze on his shoulder. "Usually months Johnny," he answered, but quickly added when the man slumped down dejectedly, "But I think if we can get the Winslow's consent, we can probably get it expedited within a week, a week and a half, maybe? Usually it takes months because the other guardians fight."

"Well, they better not fight. That's all I gotta say."

Bobby glared. "Don't be so harsh with them. I've never met them, but they sound like damn good people. If you're nice about this, then I'm sure it won't be a problem."

"No we're still going to have problems," Jim interrupted. He went on when both men stared at him intrigued, "With the CPS, they're going to want to know everything about your life with validation; proof that you do have a job and a good home, providing an adequate atmosphere. Not only that, but make no mistake they're going to be looking into Sam's kidnapping and the circumstance behind that. And I can pretty much guarantee you they won't grant you custody back until they know the suspects are caught."

John grew angry at that. It was crunch time, and he really wasn't in the mood to deal with this.

"So basically…" Jim continued.

"So basically," John cut him off sternly, "We're going to have to come up with the most believable lie we can. Pull out all the stops. Bring in our best sources. I have to get Sam back now."

Both Bobby and Jim nodded, realizing that the predicament was about to become all the more harrier.

"The point of the matter is they're getting closer," John continued, "Meaning that the boy's are no longer safe. They'll only be safe with us."

"And keeping him with the Winslow's puts them at risk too," Bobby voiced.

"Yeah that too. And I thought about it. I thought about possibly giving them up Bobby. That way they can grow up normal. They can be safe. But since those bastards showed up, there's no other choice."

"Well about Sam's memory? You don't want to scare the shit out of the kid?"

John huffed, forgetting about that little setback. "We're gonna have to make do. It's either me or them. We're only a couple counties over from them. If those guys were this close, sooner or later they're going to find him."

Jim finished taping up the last parts of the bandage. "Good point. Do you know anybody that can pull off a good cop act?"

John thought about his question hard. It only took him a minute to come up with a good answer. "Yeah actually, I do. Where's my phone?" He looked around on the bedspread, his eyes roaming until his found the device on the nightstand. Pulling out his journal from his knapsack, he flipped the page to a particular number. Once found, he dialed it.

"Hey Deacon, how's it going? Good. Good. Listen uh, I need a favor."

-

The phone rang furiously.

It was finished with its sixth ring by the time Hannah bounded into the kitchen hopping on one foot, putting a heel on the other. She answered it. The call only lasted a few minutes. When it was over, she turned around puzzled and somewhat alarmed.

"Who was it Hannah?" Jared asked, running into the kitchen after her straightening a red and gold tie around his neck.

"That was Chris," she answered smoothing out the wrinkles in her beige skirt and blazer. "He said his office was torn apart, and some of his files were missing, including Sam's file," she informed, walking back out.

Jared raised an eyebrow. "That's odd. Why would anyone want to ransack his office? What does he got to hide?"

Hannah shrugged. "Beats me."

"Okay. Come on, we need to get going or we're going to be late for the hearing. Are you ready?"

"No," she sighed, "but uh…we have to do this, right?"

"Yeah."

She scuffed her foot. "Y'know, we can fight them right? It'll probably take months and a whole lot of hassle, but we can…"

"Hannah. No," Jared cut her off softly by placing his hands on her biceps, "I know where your head is right now and I'm right there with ya." He came closer planting his forehead upon hers. "But…Sam remembers now. He remembers his old family. And sure we can fight for custody, no doubt we would win. But…" he bit his lip, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if we kept that little boy from his real family. We saw the hurt and devastation in them when Sam first didn't recognize them. And now they have that back. Let's not be the ones to put them through any more misery, alright?"

Hannah sniffled, leaning more into his touch. "I hate you sometimes."

"I know. So come on, we gotta get going."

-

The small courtroom was buzzing with small talk. John sat eagerly in his little seat, with his friend Jim acting as attorney. It was a close call, but hopefully the web of false documents and lies would be enough to gain custody of his son back. In a way he felt proud to have friends with the available resources to make him into a new person with a job and a nice home.

Though he should feel guilty for deceiving a lot of people—especially good people. The only thing he felt was desperation. Desperation, aiding in taking a risk lying to the judicial system and hopefully getting away with it. There were more important matters at hand, so it was increasingly significant to get this one dealt with. No matter whom he hurt.

His hopes soared through the roof when he arrived back at the Winslow's house to tell them his intentions when suddenly his baby boy hopped on him, hugging and crying. It took him a long second to realize that his baby had finally remembered and at that point he couldn't let him go. The couple had caught sight of the moment and it was clear in their eyes, they were willing to be cooperative.

A week and a half later, after the storm of the CPS came in, shouting out the indecency of it all and threatening to take them all away, the court date was established. Hannah had called in and asked for her family friend Judge Patters to view the proceedings. To which he calmly agreed. John and his buddies procured all the necessary documents and fake evidence to make this hearing as quick as possible. The boys were left in Jared's aunt's supervision, whilst everyone went to the courthouse in the main center of town.

With the CPS staring like hawks, John and his buddies kept their gaze in front, and as guilt-ridden as possible. The Judge, a robust man, with peppered hair and a grizzled beard, read over the provided documents and heard both sides of the argument from both lawyers. Soon Judge Patters called for a recess whilst he reviewed the case. He left shortly after that leaving everyone to wait.

A good fifteen minutes had passed by the time the judge returned to his seat. Staring critically over the rim of his glasses, he said loudly, "I reviewed the case and it all seems viable…but there is one thing I just don't understand. Mr. Winchester, if your son was abducted out of your home, why didn't you place a report with the counties Sheriff's office?"

John bit his tongue from keeping him from looking uncomfortable.

"I placed a call and not only was there no report of a missing child, but the original report you gave them was of a burglary and the assault on your other child," Patters went on, "First and foremost I want to know why."

"I can vouch for that, your Honor," a man in a mothy-brown suede suit and long dark hair stood up from the bench. His eyes were as dark as night, but they held fierce determinism and swagger.

"And you are?"

"Private Detective Maverick," Deacon answered stepping within the square, ready to pull off the biggest pile of bullshit he could…and with style. "I'm an old friend of John's. John immediately called me once he realized his son had not run-away and was possibly kidnapped." He approached the bench with a manila folder and opened it, handing the stout man false documents. "My department comes from the rural county office in Santa Mohique, Nevada. My associates had all agreed and advised Mr. Winchester not to go to the county authorities and to not share this information with anyone in case the suspects were tipped off."

"May I ask why? The county police could've easily put up search warrants, roadblocks, or whatever means necessary to find the child—"

"No sir. We believe at that point in time, given the clues that the boy was already out of the county and out of the authority's jurisdiction. There wasn't anything they could've done at that point and we were on a limited time restraint. We had already placed a call to the State Police's office to put them on alert, but unfortunately sir, all we kept receiving was the message machine. Here are all the times and dates we placed the calls."

Judge Patters shifted his glasses, reading the documents. "Well, I can say that is disappointing. Alright Detective Maverick, what did you come up with next?"

"Soon after that we were on the suspects trail. Very soon we learned that young Sam was currently not in their possession. Now we are unsure if young Sam escaped or was dropped off. We're not sure, so I advised Mr. Winchester to put up missing posters. It was my advice and I will take full responsibility if necessary."

The judge stared at the man harshly. "Missing posters? Mr. Winchester, is this true?"

John stood up. "Yes your Honor, it is."

The judge sighed. "Alright. I am very unhappy about this procedure of this circumstance. This better not happen again. If the perpetrators are still at hand, then it is vital to put this child in protective custody—"

"Sir," Deacon interrupted, "the suspects have been apprehended…in another state." He pulled out another document, "There was a full confession to all their crimes besides this one kidnapping. Sir these men were responsible for other kidnappings in that particular state alone and the sentences have already been carried out."

The man reviewed the paper, reading and rubbing the side of his hairy face. "Alright like I said, this have better not happen again. The only thing left is for the Winslow's to speak their piece."

Hannah and Jared stood up, hand in hand. Their lawyer rose with them and spoke on their behalf. "Your Honor, the original agreement was to hand over full custody if and when the real parent had been found. The Winslow's are still agreeing to abide by that."

Patters nodded turning to them. "Hannah? Jared? This is your decision to give up full custody. Do you understand this?"

Hannah swallowed convulsively before answering, "Yes sir. We want what's best for Sam…and he deserves to be with his real family."

"Okay," he turned back to John. "I'm still upset by this. Mr. Winchester, if this was to happen to your children a second time, God-forbid. You call the county, you call the state, you call anyone you can so all this can be avoided. Do I make myself clear?" he said boldly.

"Yes sir."

"Good. With that into account, I hereby grant John Winchester as sole guardian of his son Sam Winchester. Case dismissed." He announced pounding his gavel.

-

Happy and relieved, John and his fellow friends all met outside. Shaking his pal's Deacon's hand, he said, "Deacon, I owe you big."

The tall, handsome man squeezed John's gigantic paw fiercely, "Yeah you do. But I'm glad it all worked out. There wasn't much I could scrounge up at the last minute. But if it's true what you say is true, all the more reason to help. I hope you find them."

"Me too."

"So what're you going to do if they do find out the real truth?" Deacon asked, glancing around.

John cringed, "Well, hopefully we'll be long gone by that point. Hey I was wondering, what would've happened if they called your 'so-called' department?"

Deacon bounced his head up and down. "Bobby would've picked up. I thought about that too and Bobby was glad to do it."

John blew out a large sigh of relief. "Again thanks. How I can ever repay you?"

"It was no problem Johnny," he turned his head against the wind, "But it's not just me you need to be thanking."

John caught his gaze and followed it to the couple, who were sitting on the building's steps, quiet and teary-eyed. He sighed.

There wasn't any other choice. No matter whom he hurt.

-

Sad and over-all broken-hearted, Hannah sat on the porch holding onto Sam intensively…like she was afraid to let go. Jared stood behind them holding both Sam's and Dean's duffels. He was in a quiet state. Dean too sat on the porch, twiddling his thumbs. He was excited that his dad was coming to pick them up, be back on the road like he wanted. But given the expressions from the others, he thought perhaps it was best not to say anything.

Minutes later John pulls up the driveway. Dean immediately waved goodbye and jumped up, hopping in shotgun. Jared slowly came down the stairs and limped to the trunk of the car. Sam turned around to Hannah with glazed eyes. "You still like me right?"

A tear fell down the woman's cheek. "Oh God yes honey…we love you so very much, it's just…it's just…you deserve to be back with your real family."

"Come on Sam. It's time to go," John called. "Say your goodbyes."

Jared returned to the porch just as Sam stood. "Take care little man. Don't forget us," he said with tears in his eyes.

"I won't," Sam replied giving him a hug. Slowly he let go heading towards the Impala where his dad opened the back door. Before he entered, he gave them one last look. It was too much. Hannah cried out "Oh God" and ran back into house. Jared ran in after her.

Sam hung his head down as he slowly hopped into the back seat. John patted his head in content…and giving him his condolences. This was the way it had to be. Hopefully everything will pan out and return back to normal. But even he wasn't that naïve. Closing the door, he slid into the driver's seat and drove off towards the nearest cabin, where the others were waiting for him. He knew it would be a while, but given time, hopefully they would be a family again.

**Now do you really think I'd end it there? Ha, not by a long shot. Stay tuned as the bad guys have something in store for the Winchesters…and they're not going to like it one bit. I know it was a horrible chapter, but alas, it is what it is. And I don't have a lot of knowledge pertaining to Court Cases, so the court scene was what I came up with. It may or may not be realistic, but bear with me, there wasn't any time to go into the smack-dab details. Sorry about that. Until next time, Ciao!**


	19. Chapter 19

(Chapter 19)

**Hey guys. Well, at this point I'm not sure if the gut-wrenchers are over, but there will definitely be some suspense. Gear up for this one, as it's take off! Enjoy!**

_One week later:_

John and Jim sat at the oak table diligently pouring over the recent research. Records. Invoices. Catalogue numbers of the any GMC sighting in any of the surrounding states. Hours and patience flew by like geese gone on holiday. For many days, the hunters worked and worked, growing increasingly paranoid their main goal may be looming farther away. John was persistent as ever; as he had one less thing to worry about.

The family had been slowly readjusting at the cabin he had rented. Whilst the hunters researched, the boys moped around the large space. The inside was colossal, complete with an upstairs; four bedrooms, three baths, and a wooden banister overtop the living space. Since John felt the need to give the boys something, he figured some peace and quiet and in a sanitary well-kept place would do it.

Stationed far deep into raccoon territory, the cabin mainly was set for family get-a-ways. The foundation practically designed for peace and unwanted interruptions from surrounding hunting parties. No one would be able to track them. It would take a heavy bird and a good radar system to pinpoint its location. Though according to the CPS record, he was traveling back to his home in Cottonsmill. If his plan of keeping his boy's safe was going to be effective, then Cottonsmill had to be crossed off. That would be the bad guy's first place to look.

At the back of his mind, a small part worried for his sons—namely his youngest. Sam had been relatively quiet since their departure from the Winslows. And if he didn't know better, grew more and more distant. The child sometimes he would catch sitting out on the front swing, staring off into space. Other times, he'd hear him crying in the back. He could sympathize. The Winslow's had become a large part of his boy's life and he took that piece away. No way would Sam ever forgive him; and on a small level, he was okay with that. As long as he was in tact and healthy.

He thought perhaps being around his brother and at the cabin where there was plenty of room for play and leisure would help. But his child sulked around, skimming his feet, barely partaking in any activity; whilst his brother whistled and 'awed' at the place, making use of its seemingly opulent necessities—particularly the bathrooms. His behavior was slightly disconcerting. Sam would hardly even read a book.

Even more depressing was the nightly night-terrors that would plague his boy. He was told by the Winslow's he had suffered through them, but it hadn't occurred to him how bad until he experienced them first-hand. Even Dean's soft coos and coaxing had hardly any effect. For two days straight, Sam could barely sleep. Nothing would work, leaving their only choice to the handy dandy sleeping pills…and the kid would be out like a light.

John shook his head, partly because he didn't know how to go about it. There wasn't any time to deal with it. Once this ordeal was over and the other children were found…possibly—he'd find all the time in the world to be part of his son's life again. He just hoped it would be soon…and that Sam would want him to.

Not entirely satisfied with the notion of pushing his son's oppression to the side, John pressed on. The faster they found those kids, the faster he could come back and be a father again. The faster they would be able to carry on with their lives.

Time soon became the day's enemy and the afternoon melted away into nightfall. Being secluded in Ranger Rick territory, the outside came to life with swarms of cicadas and frogs singing their ritual mating calls. Nocturnal animals awoke from their daily slumber roaming around and taking interest in the open trash can posted outside the door. Groves of insects congregated around the cabin's bright lights. The typical outdoor setting…

Eventually a pair of headlights highlighted the entire front of the cabin, alerting the group there was a visitor. John immediately recognized the four-barrel engine of Bobby's Chevelle.

His suspicions were confirmed when the grizzled man came in, swapping and choking on the many gnats as he passed through the threshold. "Damn bugs," he spat, closing the door. "Great news. We found the bastards."

"What," both Jim and John exclaimed in unison.

"Yeah. That friend of Caleb's? He found it. He ran the plate number and not only found the truck's registration in a backyard's town in central Wyoming, but…also people attested to seeing the black van accomplice with it too some weeks ago.

"Ah, that's great," John leapt up, snatching the papers out of the man's hand. "The best lead we got so far."

Bobby grinned. "You're telling me. But also too, you two are not going to believe this. I ran a check and there are demonic omens sparking up all over that town—practically like fireworks in the last couple of days. Electrical storms. Cattle Mutilations. Crop failures. The whole enchilada. Definitely our hot zone."

"Then that's where we'll head. Where's Caleb?"

Bobby shook his head. "I don't know. Last time I checked he was at the bar."

"Alright," John nodded. "Gear up. When he gets back, that's when we'll get going. There's no telling how many kids are left and we need to get to them as soon as possible."

"It's been about six months Johnny," Jim spoke, "Do you think they're still alive? We haven't found another one in a couple weeks. Are we even sure there are any left?"

John paused. "Well…so far four have been found…so that leaves about five or six?"

"And if that's so? Yeah, there's a good chance they're still kicking and screaming," Bobby crossed his arms, peering at the duo giving them the message he meant business, "And even if they weren't, those bastards are still going to bleed. You don't mess with kids like that."

"You got that right," John agreed.

Quickly afterwards, he and his fellow compatriots set about packing, stuffing the papers and research neat and orderly into their knapsacks, collecting whatever arsenal and stowing them into their vehicles.

Meanwhile, the kids shuffled about upstairs, the little one avoiding his big brother. Dean followed Sam around, checking on him, curious about his anti-social behavior as of late. Since the kids were not allowed to venture downstairs. And with nothing else of valued entertainment besides movies and board games, Dean was bored. Ergo following the sulking mope around seemed like something to do. But his kid brother wasn't talking. He didn't know if it was cause for a bit of concern…or downright annoying.

Walking down the short hallway towards the back of the rooms, he noticed Sam exit his bedroom appearing downtrodden. "Hey Sam? Wanna play a game of Scrabble?" he asked, hopeful that the kid would pass up the 'Princess didn't get a Pony' routine and hang with him.

But when Sam passed by completely ignoring him, Dean's temper struck an ugly chord and he cornered him. Whirling him around by his shoulder, he forcefully asked, "What s'matter Sam? Huh? You've been like this all week. Enough is enough already."

Sam refused to look at him, his little eyebrows furrowing deeper. Dean didn't know what to make of it. It was as though his little brother was scared of something. His temper quickly ebbed away, instantly replaced with concern.

"Are you okay? Are you tired?" he asked quietly, not entirely surprised when he didn't receive an answer. "Are you still bummed over leaving the Winslows? Sam, you know sooner or later it was going to happen. I mean, I know you liked them, and I know you're probably angry…but you gotta move on."

A little sniffle escaped past Sam pouting lips.

Dean's eyes softened, coming to the conclusion that his 'face it and suck it up' spiel was not the best approach. "I know you didn't really want to leave, and I'm sorry. That was out of our hands," he licked his lips trying to think of a reassuring proposition. Shrugging he said, "But if you want, I can talk to Dad. See if we can go visit. I mean there's no harm in asking, right?"

His brother continued to be silent, gradually turning his gaze to the floor. Then he turned, obviously wanting to leave.

Dean became desperate. "No Sammy stop!" he pressed him against the wall. "What's wrong? Just talk to me, please! Don't shut me away. I don't know how to make this all better…Just…stop being mad!"

"I'm not mad."

"Just stop being…what?" Dean paused at hearing the whisper. "Did you say something?"

Sam's watery gaze met up with his, and it was then he knew something was troubling him. "I'm not mad."

"Then what? Come on Sammy, I can help you," Dean pleaded.

It took Sam a couple of false starts before he was finally able to say…stammer actually, "I just have another bad feeling."

Big brother stopped dead. Gaping fearfully at Sam, knowing full well what happened last time his kid brother had a niggling feeling. "Another one?"

Sam nodded his head, about to cry. "And it's even worse this time."

At that, Dean knew not to take any chances this time. His father was leaving again. He had to alert him before then. Immediately he went downstairs about to interrupt his dad's conversation with Bobby when Caleb suddenly rushed through the door with a package in hand.

"John, there's something you gotta see, now!"

"What is it?" John asked him a little alarmed.

"I don't know, but I have a feeling it's from one of our friends," Caleb replied giving him that stare, meaning nothing good.

"Dad, there's something—" Dean tried to catch his attention.

He caught it alright. "Dean not now."

"But Dad, this is important," he tried to argue.

"Dean," his father's powering tone echoed, "I said not now. Get upstairs and you stay up there until I tell you to come down. Right now!"

Slightly shaken by the harshness of his father's voice, Dean immediately replied "Yes sir" and scampered upstairs.

"Do you know what it is?" he heard John ask. His curiosity still in check, he made his way past the short hallway, getting down on all fours and crawling towards the wooden banister. Peeking through the bars, he could see the gang standing around the coffee-table, and the Pastor turning on the TV. That's when Caleb opened the package and pulled out a videotape.

"Who gave this to you?" Bobby asked.

"A couple hunters at the bar. They said they were looking for you. That they were actually paid to find you and give you this," Caleb explained to John, "Of course, I told them I knew you and that's when they handed it over. They didn't tell me who gave it to them, but said it was real urgent that you saw it."

That peaked everyone's attention. Dean leaned more into the wooden bars, squishing his face to get a better look. His dad immediately inserted the tape into the VCR and hit the play button, and sat down with the rest of his friends.

It turned out to be a home-made video.

And all their stomachs dropped.

Immediately the video began viewing a couple strapped and bound back to back to chairs.

"Are they?" Caleb asked.

"The Winslow's," John gasped seeing the young husband and wife appear bloody and bruised, slumped within their confines.

A scraping noise was then heard and one of the bad guys came into view. It was Scrieber. He also appeared bruised and bloody, with several trickles of blood down the sides of his face. Clearly the couple had put up one hell of a fight.

The video then showed the other bastard with the eye-patch coming up on the other side of Jared, smacking a crowbar in his palm, trying to appear intimidating. Scrieber leaned forward in front of Hannah, placing his palms on the chair's ledge.

"Come on Sweet Thing. We don't want this to get any more uglier, now do we? Just tell us where the kid is, and we'll let you go. I swear on my Old Pop," he told, smiling creepily.

The hunters then watched as Hannah's lip curled in disgust before hocking a wad in the guys' face. Scrieber launched back, wiping the slime off his eyeball. Grimacing, he threw a meaty fist across her cheek, receiving a pained yelp.

Bobby and John both tensed, clenching their fists—not sure if they want to continue seeing the carnage and interrogation. But it was like something had kept them glued to the screen.

"Get off of her!" Jared yelled struggling to get out of his bonds. He grunted painfully when Eye-patch swung the crowbar at his shoulder. "Fuck you!" he bellowed. Enraged, the man punched him on the side of his head, and then began to assault his abdomen.

"No. NO!" Hannah shrieked at hearing her husband's tormenting grunts and moans.

"Just tell us where he is, you little bitch." Scrieber hollered.

Tears leaked down her cheeks. "We don't know. Please! Stop! We don't know!"

"Then who's got him?" he put up a hand for his partner to let up. Jared bent over, gasping for breath when the man backed off. Scrieber gave him another nod and the hunters saw Eye-patch looming towards the camera.

Hannah gasped staring hatefully into the man's eyes. "Go to Hell!"

Angry, Scrieber back-handed her across her face several times, before taking out a knife from his back pocket. "Fine. If that's how you want to be, then _fine_!"

"Get away from her," Jared yelled, "HANNAH!"

The last thing the hunters heard before the screen went black was the high pitched sounds of Hannah's screams.

Every one of them sat frozen, wide-eyed.

The screen had turned to static by the time John overcame his feeling of shock. Shakily standing up and turning off the video, he turned back to his friends who he saw were just as shocked and mortified as he was.

A deep sense of guilt and horror swelled within Dean. He secretly wished he hadn't seen that video. It would forever haunt him. Those people. Hannah. Jared. The ones who took care of him and his little brother. The ones, who saved his brother, now were the victims of the bastards responsible.

Feeling incredibly nauseated, he swallowed the best he could crawling backwards away from the rail. His father needn't have known he watched it. He stopped backing away when his foot rammed into something. Turning to see what it was, his stomach jumped up his throat when he found Sam, wide-eyed, shaking, and panting deeply.

His brother watched the video too…

_Oh Shit! _

**And there you have it. The beginning of the end. Poor Hannah and Jared. And I'm afraid it doesn't get better for them. Stay tuned to find out what John and the others do…and how Sam reacts to seeing his foster parents in agony. I won't try to be long, I promise!**


	20. Chapter 20

(Chapter 20)

**Hey Guys! Thanks so much for your wonderful reviews. And an equally mighty thank you goes out to the anonymous ones (that are not quite so anonymous) that I can't reply to. I appreciate it all the same! Now if you think some of my other chapters were intense, strap yourselves in for this one. Warning, it contains a lot of violence, torture, and language (a lot of language…and you can probably guess who it is! Hannah is not happy!) Meant for mature audiences only. I warn you now. **

_Two Days Earlier:_

Hannah breathed in the stale air deeply. It smelt saturated with sweat and dried blood, making her crinkle her nose. She crinkled it some more, as the trickle of blood down her left nostril was really irritating. She stared gloomily at her husband's red-tool box on his work counter; jealous that it was made up of solid material and could feel no pain. The skin rubbed raw and bloody from all the tugging at the rope keeping her strapped to her dining room chair. Briefly, her eyes glazed over. It seemed like the same old routine: tug and push, tug and push…whatever movement to loosen the tightness of the twine.

Several hours had passed it seemed since the two intruders barged into their house unannounced. Several hours since she could remember fighting them off, and losing horribly. Afterwards being dragged down into their basement where torture of interrogation began.

The stings of her recent bruises were beginning to decrease. The flare from the slash where the monster slid his knife across her chest had dulled considerably. Never in a million years had she thought she would be in this situation. It was scarier than taking on an army of hornets without the bee-gear. Only she was glad that she wasn't alone. An overwhelming sense of relief held its sway as she felt her husband work furiously in escaping his binds behind her.

Jared's wrists were well bloody and sore. But he continued moving his arms to and fro, biting through the searing pain. He was just as scared…not just for himself, but for his wife. He understood the concepts of torture knew no bounds—including psychological torture. It wouldn't surprise him at all if the two men currently upstairs used Hannah as a method to get him to talk. All the more reason for him to continue working. He hadn't reached this part in his Marine training, but, however it was he figured, he had to get creative to escape.

He paused momentarily when he heard his wife stop. It had gone quiet between them for a while after the men left. Their voices sore from screaming and cursing out threats. So…maybe it was time to check on her.

"Hannah? Hannah, are you okay?" he asked, peeking the best he could over his shoulder.

Hannah huffed shaking her head exasperatedly. "No I'm not okay! What the hell kind of question is that?" she shrieked angrily.

"Shhh. I was just asking," he issued, instantly calming her down. Hearing her pant heavily, he knew he was in for a storm.

And he wasn't disappointed.

"Jared, they want Sam," she rasped, her voice strained from crying, screaming, and disuse.

"I know," he gritted his teeth, bending down and biting at the confines.

"Then that means…that means these guys are them. The ones who kidnapped him. John Winchester, that motherfucking bastard! He lied to us," she seethed, "_Seriously!_ Seriously, if we get out of this alive? I'm gonna track that bastard down, chop off his balls, and shove em' down his _fucking_ throat!"

"Calm down. We don't know if they can hear us."

"Oh yeah Jared, that's exactly what I'm worried about right now is those fucking retards overhearing us!" she spat.

"Shhh, just be quiet. Freaking out is not going to get us anywhere," he calmly told her, fighting hard against his quivering nerves. He knew Hannah's outburst was her way of dealing with her nerves. Figuring the best way to keep cool and collected was to keep talking…softly.

"Well, think about it this way hun. At least Sam's not here, otherwise we really would be dead. See if you can wiggle out of the rope."

Hannah growled. "I have been _wiggling_, for what…how long has it been? Oh fuck! I don't know. My ass is so Goddamn numb. I can probably stick a fucking pin in it and wouldn't feel it. I mean what the hell were they thinking? Keeping us tied up like this for hours at a time? I mean it's only going to piss us off even more."

Jared silently laughed, pulling a tendril of rope off his knuckles with his thumb. His wife's sarcasm was something he definitely valued during this horrible time. "No," he gasped, pulling off another tendril, "They're keeping us alive for a reason. They want someone to come. You saw the camera. Whoever it is, they're going to try and lure them here. Use us as leverage."

"For Sam, you mean?" Hannah tried to look at him over his shoulder.

Jared shrugged. "More than likely. They did nab him for a reason. We just never found out what, remember?"

"Psychos man," Hannah scoffed, "Well John better not be stupid."

That comment forced out a short chuckle. "I highly doubt he is. He won't use his kid like that. Nobody ever would. Meaning…and you're not going to like this. Meaning that we're on our own, so just keep trying."

"You too," she replied working fitfully at the rope. Rotating her head in irritation when the tiny fibers proved to be a match, she blew out a harried breath. "Ugh, these are so pissing me off. Can't we just tell these imbeciles a lie, and send them on their merry way?"

"No, they'll kill us if we did that. Our best bet is to keep quiet and fight them off…or ride it out until someone actually does come," Jared answered. Pausing again in his work, he asked, "How's your chest?"

"Don't go there."

"Is it—"

"…Nanana-no. Shut yer yap." Hannah silenced him. She bounced forward in an attempt to loosen the binds and obtain some good-to-do circulation.

A great clatter sounded from the upstairs. Both stilled, listening intently to the meandering footsteps. A second later, it went quiet. After a few more minutes of soundlessness, the Winslow's breathed.

"What the hell are they doing up there? They better not be in my Rice Crispy treats or it is _so_ World War Three."

"Hannah, we've got more pressing matters than you worrying about those guys in your snacks."

"I'm just saying. But ya think they would be a little more generous. Seriously, I gotta piss like fucking race horse."

Jared grimaced. "Yeah that's a little TMI right there."

"Oh shut it. Luckily for you, you don't have a short urethra."

"Yeah, well maybe if you hadn't been chugging down the Whiskey and beer for the past four days, you wouldn't have to go every two minutes," Jared retorted.

"Yeah well maybe—"

"Hannah, please can we not do this," Jared asked, "Arguing is not going to get us out of here."

"Yeah yeah yeah. Of course you'd say that. You wouldn't know a good comeback if it bit you in the ass."

"Okay okay, hey wait, wait, wait. Yes!" Jared exclaimed cheerfully when one of his hands became free. Flexing out his fingers, he immediately went to work on the other hand. "Which, if you think about it, we have something going for us right?"

"What?"

"Aren't you supposed to be at work today?" he asked, "Once they notice you haven't showed up, they'll know something's wrong."

A few tears leaked down Hannah's face. "No they won't."

"What? Why not?"

"Because it's Fall Break. Everyone has the week off," she sniffled, her anger instantaneously dissipating into despair.

"Ah shit I forgot. Okay that's no big deal, I'm almost out."

The basement door opened, followed by a loud echoing thunder where the door slammed into the side wall. The goons were back and no doubt were in for more _special treatment. _Their boots trumped loudly down the stairs, giving into the whole 'sinister villain entrance' appeal. Soon the rugged faces of their captors came into view, each with an eerie smile that only could've meant they had nasty intentions. Scrieber once again made his way towards Hannah, while his partner hung back with his arms crossed.

Hannah glared with every ounce of loath and hatred she could muster. The goon chuckled at that standing overtop of her. "Looks only hurt so much sweetheart," he leaned down bringing his faces inches from hers, "This can only end one way."

She grimaced at his foul breath. "Ugh, gross. Come on dude, have you ever heard of toothpaste?"

Scrieber grinned maliciously. "You've got fire in you. I like that in a woman. Can put up a real fight before I put them down for good."

"Yeah I bet you do," Hannah countered, taking him by surprise, "Taking advantage of the weak, using assault tactics to make you feel good. To make you feel like you're in control. Beating down helpless children. Oh yeah, you're such a man."

The man stood back listening intently.

"You breed are all the same. Daddy issues. Corrupt childhood. You're daddy probably beat you as a kid, and you didn't know who your mother was. Not to say that I'm surprised. And so this is your way of feeling superior, to make you feel powerful. All is it is just weakness, the lowest of the low…but you're just too fucked up to see that."

Scrieber approached fast, bending down where his nose touched hers. "Really? You think you're so smart? And you wonder why it gives me great pleasure to beat bitches like you into submission?"

Hannah continued to glare while the man's eyes roamed over her bodily qualities, becoming all the more disgusted as she could tell he was lapping it up like a lap dog. It was clear in his eyes he had sexual desires. He came closer, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Hmmm, tell ya what. I'll hold back for awhile. I do like to watch."

Hannah snorted. "That's nice. In the mean time, get a tic-tac while you're at it."

His icy eyes flashed creepily. "Better yet, how bout this?" he eyed her with a hunger that made her feel real uncomfortable.

"How about—" he took out his knife—"you give me a reason—" the knife cut through the twine on her right hand—"to let you go. Make it worth my while."

Totally repulsed at the psycho's offer, Hannah answered by head ramming him. No way was her hand going anywhere near his _package—_that is to say if he had one. The man backed up, stunned by the head-but. Her head stung terribly, but she quickly overcame the throb by lifting her foot up between his legs. Scrieber howled painfully bending over. His knife fell from his hands as he tried to regain his composure. Punje chortled at his plight.

Scowling at the man, Scrieber straightened up and swung his fist out. The force of the impact was so massive, it knocked the chair over. Hannah cried feebly as it felt like her brain jostled back and forth in its cavity.

"Hannah!" her husband cried out angrily. Spit-balling mad over the hostility administered on his wife, Jared launched up from his seat—his other hand breaking free. The guy with the eye-patch was the first to advance. Jared went into a 'boxer' stance. Punje swung a few punches at him, to which he easily deflected. Throwing his fist freely at the man's temple, he knocked him square off his feet with a mighty undercut.

Quickly whirling around, Scrieber took him by surprise by lifting him from his waist and slamming him into the wall. Jared grunted painfully, but immediately brought down his elbow into the man's spine. Bringing the elbow harshly down three more times, Scrieber finally backed off. Jared saw this as his chance and swung his good leg up into the man's face. The brute stumbled backwards, holding his jaw. Donning his reserved psychotic expression, he launched at the young man with his arms outstretched.

Jared was ready. Easily he rotated to the side as the man flew at him, sending him crashing into the behind wall. Reaching over, he picked up one of his wrenches off a shelf and brought it down on the man's head. Scrieber went down on his knees moaning, clutching the back of his skull.

Catching the other man moving out of the corner of his eye, Jared turned around wielding the large wrench. He froze when Eye-patch gained the upper hand by pulling up Hannah, jabbing a gun to her throat. Inwardly cursing himself, he stood stock-still. The look on his wife's face told him to go ahead and do something, but he couldn't. He couldn't take that risk. Silently apologizing, he instead lowered his weapon.

"That's a good boy," Punje snarled, swiftly aiming the gun and shooting him in his bad leg. Jared crashed to the floor with a pained scream.

"No! Jared!" Hannah cried out.

Punje threw her to the side into the metal cabinet. He then came over and started stomping and throwing harsh kicks into the man's side. Once his partner staggered his full height, he too came over and began to take on the unrelenting punishment. Too stubborn to give up, Jared continued to fight, curling into the tightest ball he could, trying to ride out the kicks.

Shaking her head of the Tweedy Birds dancing in circles, Hannah looked around for a good weapon. Noticing the wooden broom tucked in the corner, she crawled fast towards it. Once retrieving it, she wielded it up and tip-toed up behind the assailants.

"Hey!" she barked catching both of their attentions. Swinging it with all her might, the broom handle smashed into Scrieber's head first, instantly knocking out a tooth. He went down like a beached whale. Punje jumped back as she swung the square head of the broom his way. He pointed the gun, which she instantly swiped away with another swing. Taken by surprise, Punje stood there by the time she whirled around with another round-house attack. He too went down in a daze.

Breathing fiercely, Hannah threw down the broom. Seeing this as her opportunity of escaping, she grabbed her hubby by his arm. "Come on Jared. Come on. We gotta go." He was heavy, mainly because he was disoriented. Once she managed to pull him to his feet, with great difficulty, she started towards the stairs.

They had managed to climb the first few steps when another shot rang out and Jared collapsed, falling back down the stairs. "No. Come on Honey. Get up. Get up!" Hannah shrieked, tugging on the man's arms.

Free of the dizzying hits, the two men came forward and pulled her off the stairs. She struggled, and fought, screaming out 'no'. It was a task, but they were able to chain her back to the chair.

Jared struggled to move at the foot of the stairs, but the two shots and possibly broken lower leg, he wasn't able to. Punje and Scrieber creepily stalked up to him.

"You two are proving to be more trouble than your worth. So, we have a tough guy huh? We know exactly what to do with tough guys," Punje remarked. "Why don't we take him upstairs? We wouldn't want the Mrs. to see this. We gotta break him into telling the truth somehow."

His partner agreed and both picked the lug up and dragged him up the stairs. With hardly any strength left, Jared hung his head, cringing at hearing his wife scream out his name. The two men then brought him into his kitchen and filled up the sink with water.

"All you had to do was tell us where the kid is. No harm, no foul. But since you decided not to be cooperative, then this is how it's gotta be," Scrieber said, spitting out blood.

Once the sink was three-quarters of the way filled, they stuck Jared's head into it. Jared struggled and struggled, gripping his nails into the men's hands, but to no avail, the bad guys had a good grip on him. After a few agonizing moments, they pulled his head out, allowing him to cough and sputter.

"Had enough? Tell us where he is or who took him. What is this kid to you?" Punje yelled.

Jared spit out the water and remained silent.

Scrieber's eyes flashed. "Fine," and he pushed his head back into the sink. Looking over on the countertop, his eyes flashed again with malice seeing his favorite device. Picking up the tazor, he sadistically stuck it into the man's side. Jared's body jerked and convulsed, screamed and writhed as the effects of the electric torture was un-Godly. Water splashed all around them, soaking into their clothes. The pain soon became unbearable and he prayed for a swift death.

Tears ran down Hannah's face the more she heard her husband's screams and gurgles, echoing from the vent. She wasn't sure how much more she would be able to handle it. This could be it for the both of them. With the thought of no one coming to their rescue, she immediately fell into despair.

"God Damn you, John Winchester. God Damn you. God Damn you. God Damn you."

_-_

_Present:_

"Sam?" Dean whispered, coming up on his brother's side. Sam's wide-eyed look had not faltered and his breathing increased. "Sam?" Dean poked his side.

The little boy jerked, gazing fretfully. He took one last glance down at his father and without warning, took off back into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

"Dammit," Dean cursed jogging up to the door. Knocking on it, he called out, "Sam.

Come on. I don't…I don't know all that you saw. But you know they're going to be okay."

He inwardly flinched, hoping that he wasn't lying to his brother. "I don't want to lie to you. But Dad will take care of it. He will save them. Just please open the door."

He jiggled the doorknob, learning that it was locked tight. Nothing but a good ram could open. At hearing, the strangled cries his brother made, Dean slowly slipped into the pit of sorrow for his little brother. Another one of his bad feelings had come to pass…and there wasn't anything he could've done about it.

"Come on Sam, please," he pleaded, kneeling by the door. His brother still refused to come out. Shaking his head in disappointment, he made his way towards his own bedroom.

-

A whole new dilemma was presented for John. Now there was another decision to be had: save the kids, or save the Winslows. It was always a funny fact that his life presented these types of choices; either way someone had to be sacrificed.

He stood, wide-eyed, thinking rapidly of what to do. He had feared this would have happened. That was essentially the reason why he had to get his sons out of there. And now those people had fallen victim. Guilt messed with his mind. He could've warned them. But it was a whole new ball game now. He realized the only reason for receiving the tape in the first place was to lure him in, as a trap. But even if he had decided to rise up to the bait, how would he find them? He had no unearthly idea of where the video was taken.

"Caleb?" he turned to his good friend, "Did those guys tell you where they received this?"

Caleb shook his head solemnly. "No."

"Did they tell you when?"

"Yeah, they said over two days ago."

The guilt intensified. John adopted the guilt-ridden look the other hunters knew as a sign that meant total annihilation for the fiends responsible. Letting out a long breath, John marched outside. The others immediately followed.

"What're we doing Johnny? Are we going after the thugs that have the Winslows?" Caleb asked.

John shook his head. "No we're going after the kids. If this happened two days ago, then it's too late. They're already dead. The kids are more important. More than likely the assholes probably have headed back to camp. And I want to meet them there."

The other hunters exchange remorseful looks, all coming to the realization that he was probably right. Each headed out to their vehicles, getting ready for the last stand. John joined Caleb at his car.

"You're not going to take the Impala?" Caleb asked inquisitively.

"No. She's got a few damages on her I don't want to take the risk of furthering. I'll take care of it later. Besides the bastards know what my car looks like and I don't want to take the chance of them recognizing it."

Caleb nodded. "Good point," he settled into his front seat. Before John hopped into the passenger seat, he called out to Jim on the front porch. "Stay here. Don't let them out of your sight, and for God's sake do not tell them."

"You needn't worry John. Be careful," the Pastor replied.

-

The hours had slowly twiddled by. It was dreadfully quiet in the cabin since the hunters left. Jim occasionally switched back from watching the news to reading his newspaper. It was all about the headlines for the man. He grew deeply troubled after watching the video, somewhat remorseful. Reluctantly he wanted to agree with the possibility in that the young newlyweds were still alive. But given his experience, he believed John to be correct in his assumption.

The hours continued to crawl by leading towards midnight. Jim sat back in the lounge chair, shifting his glasses methodically in trying to stay awake. Still reading the fine print, he occasionally sipped from his brandy, unaware of the two tablets fizzing at the bottom of the glass.

Staying as quiet as a church mouse, Sam slipped his tennis shoed foot out the window. Thankful there was a lattice stationed on the opposite wall of the cabin, he climbed onto the roof. Scuttling across the black shingles, he quickly made his way to the wall and slowly climbed down. Jumping down the last few feet, he straightened out his tiny jean jacket and strode on.

After watching the video of Hannah and Jared's torture, by the same men who was primarily responsible for nearly killing him, he became a whole new person. With his stubborn side banging loudly on their drums, he made a decision. No longer was he going to be cordial and helpless. Even if he was seven years old, he had to do something. His brother taught him to be more than that.

Sneaking off to the Impala, he creepily opened the door, cringing at the creakiness. He hoped no one had heard it. He knew the Pastor wouldn't. If his plan worked, the man was out like a light by now. Carefully closing the door once inside, he turned the ignition key. The Impala came to life with a loud roar, nearly scaring the shit out of him. But he wouldn't let that get to him. After witnessing the look in his fathers' eyes, he realized he would have to be the one to save Hannah and Jared.

Dean jerked at the sound of the Impala. Peering out the window, he saw the running lights on and the exhaust steaming out. Believing it might have been his father, he searched around bewildered that he didn't see the others' cars. That's when it occurred to him.

Taking off like a bat out of Hell, he scampered down the carpeted stairs towards the front door. Taking a glance, he saw the Pastor sprawled out on the chair, completely zonked out with his Brandy glass on the floor. That was all the confirmation he needed. Racing to the door, he opened it to see the Impala begin to drive away.

Dean's jaw dropped in horror. "My future baby!" he shrieked taking off at a gallop. "Sammy! Sammy!"

The car continued to roll forward at a slow pace, swerving from side to side. Dean ran faster yelling frantically. "Sammy. Stop. Stop!"

The car then straightened out. Dean finally managed to catch up. He wrenched the passenger door open, where he saw his little brother's body half in the floorboard and his long arms steering the wheel. "Sam stop."

"No Dean," Sam protested.

Dean panted heavily running faster. "Stop! Can we talk about this?"

Sam smiled, shaking his head. "Get in the car Dean."

"Ooh," Dean grimaced jumping in. Immediately he grabbed the wheel screaming "We're going to die!" Yanking on the wheel, they barely avoided a tree post. "Sammy stop."

"No I have to do this Dean."

"Sammy?"

"Shove it Dean," Sam responded pushing on the gas.

Frantic, Dean released the wheel. "Okay. Okay. Okay. How about this? How about this? Stop the car and we'll talk. Kay?"

"Only if you agree to help."

"Fine! Just stop the car!"

Sam let up on the gas, slowly pressing on the brake until the car came to a smooth halt. Dean breathed in and out, like he had just finished a marathon. "What, are you nuts?"

"No," Sam replied vehemently. "Those bad guys have Mrs. Hannah and Mr. Jared and we have to save them."

"Sam. Dad will take care of it. That's why dad left," Dean tried to explain.

But Sam shook his head, disbelievingly. "No he won't. I saw that look Dean, as did you. You know he won't help em'. He doesn't even know where to find em'."

"And you do?"

"Yes! They're in their basement. Don't tell me you forgot what it looked like?"

"No. I know you're right. They are in the basement. But Sammy, if we get there? How are we going to face them? We're just kids."

Sam sent him a pointed look. "Dean, don't be a dumb-butt. We're dad's kids. I don't know what dad normally does, but I do know people are scared of him. So people should be scared of us too."

Dean adopted a nervous look. "Sam it doesn't quite work that way. We're not dealing with what dad normally deals with. We're dealing with real people, crazy people this time."

"Then what does dad normally deal with?"

The big brother froze, fearing he had gone too far sharing the ultimate secret. He looked away.

Sam sighed. "Dean. I know you keep a lot of secrets for dad. I want to know…but I also know dad doesn't want me to know. But this… this is not about him. This is not about me. This is about Mrs. Hannah and Mr. Jared. They saved me," he swallowed, the twinkle in his eyes shining all the more brighter, "I have to save them now. With or without you. Without dad…"

"Sammy, dad is going to go bonkers if we do this."

"I don't care Dean. You always told me to stand up for what's right. And this, I know is right. So I'm going. If you want to stop me, you have to kill me."

Dean flinched. "Wow that was…that was pretty heavy for a seven year old. Dude, you need to get out of the books."

"Dean!"

Dean rolled his eyes, understanding his kid brother was just as stubborn as a deaf mule. "Alright. Alright. Get your panties out of a twist Cinderella. I'll help, but only on one condition...two actually."

"Name em'."

"One: you follow me. You stay behind me at all times. Do as I say when we get there, alright?"

Sam nodded now rolling his eyes. "Fine…and the other one?"

Dean grinned. "I'm driving. I take the wheel, you man the pedals, affirmative?"

"Affirmative," came the little reply.

"Alright. Now scoot," Dean ordered grinning widely sliding over into the driver's seat as his brother went deeper into the floorboard. He sighed, "We're going to get in so much trouble for this."

"Ah quit your whining."

Dean gave him a sour look settling behind the wheel. He peered down at him, "You do know which pedals are which right?"

Sam returned the sour look. "Duh, I'm not stupid."

"Okay. Okay. Just checking. Now nice and slow Sammy. Ease her on out."

Sam slammed down on the gas pedal.

"I said slow!" Dean screeched steering the wheel, trying to get it straightened. "Back off! Back off!"

"I thought you said you can handle it," Sam argued.

"Sammy. Now's not the time to argue," Dean whined.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever and just drive!"

**Yay, Sammy's to the rescue. I know it seems pretty heavy for a seven year old and an eleven year old to be taking on this sort of mission…but they are John's kids after all. Hope it wasn't too grueling. Stay tuned to see what Sam and Dean do next. **

P.S It's TONIGHT!!! *Cue Shimmy Dance*


	21. Chapter 21

(Chapter 21)

**Hey there. I'm sorry. I know it's been awhile, and I have no excuse. But I'm hoping to redeem my tardiness with this new installment. Get ready, I have yet another dark twist! Again, meant for mature audiences only. **

The two speeding vehicles both grounded to a halt to the side of the dirt road; the headlights glow dying down on the wilting trees: another marker for the hot-zone. The road continued on for at least half a mile, according to the map, leading to some unknown farmland. The hunters decided to hang back. Firstly so that the potential enemy wouldn't have sensed they had arrived, if this was the spot; and secondly, because they needed a place to group, gather, scope, and strategize. The side on the road seemed like the place to do it.

John and Caleb exited the Mustang, simultaneously breathing in the brisk morning air. A little past six in the morning? And driving all night? Sure, they were in the best of shape…. John stretched his back out, one bone-crack at a time. Bobby too met up with them, stretching. A sheer look of apprehension plastered over his face, practically demonstrating what they all were feeling.

Finally finding a suitable lead, and finding the spot where the missing children were held. All three buzzed with excitement and solicitude. They had no idea what they would find…or how to take care of it.

"Bobby?" Caleb called, grinning like an idiot, obviously anticipating the hunt. There was light at this seemingly endless journey, and he was more than ready to kick a little demon ass. "Ready?"

The old man shrugged following them to the truck of Caleb's Mustang, where John quietly began assembling and delegating weaponry. "Ready as I'm gonna be," he replied taking the shotgun John handed to him. Cocking it, he double checked, making sure there were plenty of rounds, with plenty of backup. He tucked a fistful of rock-salt bullets into his vest pocket.

John cocked his own shotgun, pulling the strap of his army duffel stuffed with lead over his shoulder. "Okay I think before we go in with guns blazing, we scope it out. Take a perimeter. Bobby, why don't you go Northeast? Check to see if there is anything up there. Meet back in twenty minutes."

Patting his leg, Bobby sighed exhaustively. He could feel the aches of senior beginning to encroach. "Sure. Be back before you know it," he took off at a trot, with his gun slung over his shoulder like a soldier.

John turned to the man next to him, closing the trunk door. "Caleb you and I in the mean time will—" The sound of his phone chiming in his pocket went off. Curious as to who would call him at six in the morning, he picked it out, interested when he saw **Jim** labeled as the caller. "Hey Jim, how's...whoa, whoa! Jim. Slow down. Slow down… What?" his face darkened. "What do you mean they're gone?"

* * *

"You call that a parking job?" Sam admonished standing with his arms cross, tapping his foot impatiently.

A smug smile flitted across Dean's face. "I'll have you know for a twelve-year old, that's a dang good parking job," he replied admiring his handiwork with half of the Impala's backend jutting out onto the road and the other half far onto a sidewalk.

Sam gave him a critical look. "You're not twelve for another three months Dean."

"Close enough," the older brother shrugged. "That still makes me twelve," he justified, to which the little brother just rolled his eyes. "Whatever let's go," Sam urged taking Dean's hand.

Having parked on a suburban street, a couple blocks from the Winslow's home, the boys continued along the sidewalk, peering suspiciously at each of the neatly maintained homes. For a fleeting second, Dean longed for a neighborhood like this one to be his own one day. He huffed, coming to the conclusion that it was a fantasy, nothing more. A life of wealth, normality, and safety was a luxury he and his family couldn't afford, not with what they know lurking in the dark.

Strolling on with Sam maintaining the lead, they passed a small white two-story that had an uncanny similarity to their last home. Dean stopped dead. Seeing the tiny stairwell leading up to the front-door weirdly brought a sense of nostalgia. They had some good times in their old home. Though it was a short stay, Sammy and he had grown up a lot, learning new things, taking on some responsibilities…playing Scrabble.

And that's when the dreaded weekend flooded back to him, as if he was experiencing an influx of flashbacks like Sammy's had been recently. With Sam tugging on his hand, he stood stock-still thinking back to that night. Very recently had he gotten over the horror of it. But now, realizing what he was about to face again, it panicked him. The flashes of the gun going off, the swing of the crowbar, and the mad faces of his assailant; he came to the understanding this was a very bad idea. And he cursed himself for allowing it to go this far.

Gazing sternly down at the stubborn nipper, he wrenched free of the little hand, crossing his arms. His mind was already set against this ridiculous rescue-mission, but now it was a matter of convincing Sam. Odds were it would be like speaking Chinese to an elephant. But he still had to try. Licking his lips, he said, "Sam. Maybe…I've been thinking that possibly," he stumbled over his words. He couldn't quite figure it out why he was having a hard time with this. Sam eyed him expectantly, his green eyes screaming 'out with it!'

So he went on, "I think that maybe this isn't such a great idea. That maybe we're way in over our heads in this."

The little eyebrows furrowed.

Dean rolled his eyes. _Here we go! _

"No Dean," Sam squeaked, "We got this far, so let's keep going. It's just around the corner and I know we can do this. Nothing bad will happen."

Dean eyed Sam incredulously. Did it finally happen and his brother had gone cuckoo? It made him a little angry. "Sam, get your head out of the clouds. You can't think that way. Don't think that this will play out exactly how it does in a book. Don't think that just because we're kids doesn't mean nothing bad will happen. Newsflash," he exclaimed harshly, "It did happen. Look at your arm. Look at me, and tell me it won't get bad."

Still Sam was reluctant. He shook his head, slapping the sides of his legs. "Dean, we have to. We have to save them."

A whirlwind of wonder paraded all through Dean's skull. His brother sure was stubborn. He might have been proud of him for sticking it out, caring only for other's safety. But now was the time to act adult. "Sammy, you're not listening to me. I fought them," he pointed a finger in the air, "I fought them with everything I had and it still wasn't enough. And I'm sorry to say it won't be any different this time."

Sam stomped his foot, determined to stand his ground. "No it will be Dean cuz they don't know we're coming."

Dean huffed at the ridiculousness of that statement. It was true. His brother was too stupid for his own good, too obstinate; either that or was filled with too much fantasy. He might have to burn his Van Damme tapes after this. That is if they survived! "Sam! What makes you think pulling a surprise attack on them is going to make any difference? It won't, I guarantee you."

"Then why don't we get Dad's guns?" Sam asked.

That was a shocker there! Dean might have laughed if the moment wasn't so serious. "Oh my God, what have I done?" Dean cried out flabbergasted, "No, I am definitely not giving you a gun. Jeez, our lives are effed up." He went into a series of huffs, shaking his head with bewilderment. Is this how he raised his brother to be? Can you imagine what he was going to be like in a few years?

"Then why'd you come?" Sam demanded now crossing his arms.

Dean spluttered looked around, flopping his hands onto his sides. He didn't really have a decent answer.

"Why?" his brother shrieked.

Dean winced. "Because I really wanted to drive," he blurted under the pressure, "Okay! I didn't think we'd get this far. I'm surprised I remembered how to get back here."

"Dean—"

"Sammy no!" Dean butted in, more serious now than he had been. "This is not Nintendo. This is not a videogame. This is the real deal. And they want _you_. That's the whole reason why they sent the video tape. They wanted us to come."

It was as though Sam hadn't heard him. "Dean we have to save them," he protested.

Dean sighed, scuffing his tennis shoe on the sidewalk. "I know. But Sam what were to happen if they actually do get you? I mean what if something did happen and I can't save you?" he said earnestly causing little Sam to whimper. "I don't know what they want with you. Dad was too afraid to let me see what happened to the other kids."

Sam perked up. "What other kids?"

Dean paused. "You didn't know?" he gritted his teeth when Sam shook his head, now intrigued. _Crap, I said too much._ He sighed knowing that if he didn't say something now, Sam was going to hound him relentlessly until he did. "There are others these guys took. And they did something bad—bad enough to where it scared the bejesus out of dad. I won't let that happen to you. And I've gone with you this far, but I can't. I'm sorry Sammy, but I can't let you go all the way."

He knew he was in for it when the pouting of the lips started. Soon the glossy bright eyes and the peak in eyebrows appeared and Dean instantly recognized the puppy dog look. The killer expression his baby brother used in order to get what he wanted. And boy does it work every time. Sure Dean was strongly for the look when it came to scamming old ladies for their pocket money, but this time he secretly despised it…because it was working! "Okay, okay," he surrendered, switching to plan B. "We're going to help them. But we're not going to do it. We'll call the cops. Have them come instead. You have to go with me on this Sammy, cuz that's the only option we have left."

The puppy dog look was put on hold while the Sammy glare became dominant. Dean rolled his eyes again. This was like working with untrained puppies in a dog show. So an ultimatum had to be put on the floor. "It's either we call the cops and have them rescue Mr. Jared and Mrs. Hannah or…or we go back to the car and skedaddle. Your choice."

Sam huffed tightening his arms into its knot. He wanted to be the hero, not some cop with a gun. He wanted payback. But with his brother mainly standing against him; it was no-win scenario. Unless…"Fine," he spat through his teeth.

Dean beamed. "That's a good boy," he looked around. "Okay, it looks like that house's lights are on. We can try them," he said steering his brother's shoulders and pushing him across the street.

The house it seemed belonged to an elderly person. With the traditional white picket fence, the garden shed off to the side, the Cadillac in the driveway, complete with a mini Hydrangea and Tulip garden in the front, it possibly was owned by a wealthy elderly couple. Crossing over the finely manicured lawn, Dean dragged his brother up the small porch. Sam hung back as Dean knocked on the coppery-finished door with unease. How would he explain calling the cops for a possible break in and torture that happened some time ago? Well, life was full of surprises, and sometimes you'd just have to go with the flow. And lying to the cops was no problem.

Dean rapped on the door a second time, determined to wake someone up if need be. Soon he came to find out he was right when an elderly woman probably around sixty dressed in a lavender silky bathrobe answered.

He cleared his throat, donning one of his own puppy dog looks. "Morning ma'me," he nodded his head, grinning sheepishly, "Would it be alright if we could use your phone?"

The woman looked at him strangely. Her grey eyes scanned the rest of the porch as if she were looking for someone else and then rested on him quizzically. Dean felt rather uncomfortable about it. What did he have three heads or something? Did she expect a curtsy? What was more disturbing was that an image of him grinning sheepishly practicing a Swedish curtsy danced in his head at that thought. He shook his head ridding of the image.

The woman cleared her throat. She spoke in a soft sweet tone. "Sure honey you can use the phone, but…we? Dear?"

Dean was puzzled. Yeah, we! Meaning him and the little dude tagging along. Who else did she think was part of 'we': a leprechaun named Steve? "Yeah me and my—" his words caught in his throat when he turned around. His heart experienced an arrhythmia. Sam was gone. "Oh no," he said hauntingly, "Sam!" he leapt off the porch at a dead run.

* * *

Caleb was stunned and amazed. Not only hearing about the Winchester kids and their latest exploit was fascinating, not at all surprising to say in the least, but seeing the father in the mix about to spontaneously combust. He'd hate to say it, but it was rather entertaining. "Okay John breathe. Breathe with me. In and out. Inhale. Exhale. That's a good boy," he coached.

John was hunched over, sucking in and expelling out air rapidly like a person prone to air-sickness. "I'm gonna kill them. I'm gonna kill them. I'm so going to kill them. They are _so_ dead. How can they…God, they are so stupid," he ran his hands through his hair, contemplating about ripping massive chunks out.

Caleb patted his back, biting his tongue so as to not let out a laugh. "Ease up there old man before you give yourself a stroke."

"Ugh…" John straightened out, "I thought I raised them better than that."

"No you raised them to be the best of the best. To do things like that," Caleb answered, his ingenious having impeccable timing. He backed away when John slowly gave him an unappreciated look. "Not helping." John said through clenched teeth.

"I know. But okay. What I want to know is how did they get past Jim? That's a feat if you ask me."

"He said he saw the remnants of some of Sammy's sleeping pills in his brandy glass," John answered.

Caleb snorted. "Yeah that's one way to get the clergyman off his keister. Man, I gotta hand it to your kids—that's some straight up MacGyver shit."

All the air expunged from John's lungs in one great gasp. "That's it. No more libraries. No more books. No more car magazines. That is it," he pushed off the hood of the Mustang, coming around to the passenger side. "I gotta go. I have to get to them. I have to make sure they're alive so they can be punished. Ugh, God Dammit. Those two are going to send me to an early grave."

"Looks like they're not the only ones," Caleb pointed out, seeing Bobby sprinting from up the road. He had to give it to the aging man; he could put a lift in it.

Bobby skidded to a halt in front of them, out of breath. "Looks…looks like someone's home. The truck's there. Not too far up ahead. I saw movement inside the house. Possibly a kid moving."

John sighed. Of course! Now what? He was in between a rock and a hard place. What was he to do? He couldn't leave his pals to take on the hot-zone alone, but nor could he leave his kids to find the Winslow's. Besides even if he had left right there at that moment, what good will it have done? Turning a sharp eye to Caleb, he said, "I'm calling the cops."

That took the young cop-evader by surprise. Caleb was becoming more stunned with John by the minute. But still he couldn't help feel that perhaps that was what should have been done. "Maybe that's what we should have done in the first place," he expressed.

John rolled his eyes at him punching in the in the number on his cell. He prayed that he wasn't already too late.

* * *

The grass was longer than usual. The house itself had a dark ominous feel about it. It gave him the wiggles inside his stomach. But Sam pressed on, crawling on the ground beside the fence in the backyard. He kept his eyes up and his ears alert. He knew the bad guys were still in the house. He didn't know how he knew, but it was like he could sense their evil presence.

And it made him angry.

Crawling faster now, ignoring the tiny voice in his head screaming to turn back, he continued forward, making his way to the right side of the house. Edging along the lattice siding, he thought about what would be the best way of entering the house. He had just past the basement window when something heavy pounced on him. About to scream bloody-murder, his cry failed when a familiar hand clasped around his mouth, keeping him silent.

He looked up and saw his brother lying on top of him. Dean bent down and angrily whispered to him, "You're so stupid. God, you're such a selfish moron. I'm going to kill you, tear you limb from limb…alive."

Sam wriggled, shrugging off his hand. "Get off," he spat quietly at him.

"God, I can't believe you Sammy," Dean proclaimed, "You just couldn't listen, could you? Now we're in trouble."

"No we're not. They don't even know we're here," Sam said. Then in that moment, they heard something crash and break from inside, along with loud angry voices. That confirmed it. The scoundrels were still inside. Both kids froze with fright, listening intently. Dean looked to and fro, waiting to see if there would be any surprises coming from behind. So far the men had not come out. He took a short breather.

Sam did too. He looked around, still trying to think of a good way to break in unnoticed. "Okay, I think we're good. But we got to get in."

Dean shook his head. "No, we don't. We're going to call the cops, and get out of here," he replied, to which Sam turned an ugly sneer on him. "No Dean we're here. We're going to see this through. They may not be your family, but they are to me. I don't care what you say. I'm going in somehow, even if I have to go in through the front door."

That hurt. To Dean that hurt a lot. He wanted to smack his kid brother right then, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He turned away feeling incompetent. Truth was, Sam was right. The Winslows were his family at one point, when he didn't know he had one. And if the tables were turned and it had been his Dad in there, more than likely he'd just be as stubborn about it. He could see the reasoning behind it, even if the waterworks were beginning to turn on. Besides it wasn't like he could keep his brother on a leash. Everyone knew how that would turn out.

"Fine Sam. Fine. They're your family and not mine. I get that. But what you're suggesting is suicide and I hate you for it. And now I know I can't stop you," he told him quietly, "So I ain't letting you go in alone. If they mean this much to you, then I suppose they should mean this much to me too."

Sam gave a small smile. It about time his brother was getting on with the game. "Good. Now we have to find a way in."

Dean bit his tongue to keep away the tears. His Dad was going to kill him for this. "Okay," he searched around, "But how…" he trailed off catching sight of a large vent on the side wall. Then it struck like a lightning bolt. The time he spent with Jared in his basement. It came back to him as another flash.

"_Uh Mr. Winslow, what is that?"_

"_Uh, it's an old laundry chute."_

"_Huh? But the kitchen is that way?"_

"_Yeah you're right. But this house is fairly old, and over there is where the kitchen used to be. Now that thing is just closed up, but it does have an opening to the outside…which is kinda useless. But I haven't messed with it," he pressed his lips shaking his head, "…probably won't."_

That was it: the grand secret entrance.

"Come on Sammy. I have an idea," Dean said crawling toward the large metallic grill.

Sam followed suit, sitting beside him when he pondered on how to get through the structure. Seeing a handle, he pulled the lever down backing away when the slates lifted up. Dean's mouth sagged into a crooked line. That wasn't going to work. He briefly glimpsed at his little brother when he saw green mold lining the rim. Observing it closely, running a finger along the icky substance, he learned there was water damage. And when there was water damage, then…

"Hey Sammy, grab that right there," he pointed to the left top corner, sticking his own hands in between the slates. "We're going to try and pull it out."

"Okay," Sam agreed, placing his hands to the place as directed.

"Alright, one…two…three, puuullll," the boys heaved, using whatever strength they had into pulling the metallic sheet out of the siding. It proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated. Both tried several times in pulling and shaking without making so much noise. When the better part of physics told them that two sets of hands and not a lot of force was going to help out, Dean decided to give up.

Sam, however, refused to give up. Frustrated, he gazed at the square block and saw that their effort had paid off a little. The edge had come out just barely. His genius making a call, he acquired an idea. Without a word to Dean, he scampered off to the backyard shed. Knowing that Mr. Jared typically kept it unlocked, he went in and grabbed one of Hannah's garden shovels. Skittering back quickly and quietly, he placed the sharp edge of the shovel down on the grill, and used leverage from the wall, to pry the vent open.

Dean stared dumbstruck. He could attest at that moment his brother was the eighth wonder of the world. The shovel idea worked. He caught the grill as it fell out, gently placing it on the ground. Afterward, he peeked inside the dark hole. Coughing at the many cobwebs and dust, he looked down and saw it was a short jump.

Motioning to Sam that he'd go first, he slowly climbed in. The shaft was big enough, he swore, to fit at least three heavy-set people, which was to his advantage. Slowly jumping down into the dark, he waited, swiping at the many more webs he became entangled in down at the bottom. Shadows danced up above and he looked up to see Sam's feet enter the top. Looking down, waiting on his brother to jump, he saw to the front the other grill that led into the basement, the one he found that day when he hung out with Jared.

Peering through the tiny bars, he saw a figure slumped in a chair, with their head resting on their chest. Judging from the long hair, it had to be Mrs. Hannah. She wasn't moving. And that made his heart jump up his throat. It was dreadfully quiet in the basement. Another chair he saw was lying on its side, pieces of rope lying next to it. A nasty smell wafted through his nose, rich with the metallic smell of blood and stale urine. He sat back in disgust. That's when Sam jumped down, the shaft ringing with the movement.

Sam looked ahead and too saw and smelt what Dean had. Immediately he rushed forward, pushing against the grill. "Sam, hang on," Dean urged, coming up beside him, "Let's to do this together, alright?" Sam didn't answer. He was too gung-ho on trying to get to Hannah.

Not long afterward, the grill protruded from its space, suspended by tiny fingers. Carefully the boys laid the grill to the bottom of the floor. Sam was the first to climb out. Without checking for the usual first signs of danger, he scrambled to his foster mother, who appeared severely beaten and unconscious. Dean hastily scrambled out of the hole, eager to run after his brother. Firstly he checked around the basement, seeing the rest of the signs of distress. Jared was no where in sight and neither were the two guys.

After deeming the room clear, he crept over to the chair, witnessing the true extent of Hannah's injuries. Cracks of dried blood surrounded her binds, evident that she tried to escape. She had long cuts on her cheeks on top of heavy mottled bruises. There were tears in her maroon shirt, and bloodstains covering her jeans. She appeared dead.

Overcome with grief and anger directed at the two men, Dean went over to one of the shelves, grabbed a hand-held saw and began to chisel away at her binds, beginning with her feet.

Grief-stricken, believing he was too late; Sam softly lifted and cradled her head in his arms. Tears began to form when suddenly there was movement. Hannah stirred awake. Blinked owlishly, she became startled, jerking out of Sam's grasp. It was clear in her eyes that she was afraid. Catching the sight of the two of them, she finally calmed, staring disbelievingly.

"It's okay, Mrs. Hannah. It's me," Sam touched her hand, "It's Sam."

Hannah panted harshly, "Sam?" she cried, scrunching her eyes shut.

"Yes it's me," Sam smiled.

"Sam," Hannah cried again, with tears running down her cheek, "What are doing here, baby?"

"We've come to save you," Sam said, smiling with bravado. Obviously he loved every bit of playing the hero.

Hannah cried some more. "No Sam. You should get out of here, they want you."

"I don't care Mrs. Hannah. This ends today."

Dean finished cutting the rope around her legs. He stood up. "Mrs. Hannah, where's Mr. Jared."

"I don't know," she gasped, the tears running down faster, "They took him upstairs."

"Okay," Dean said handing Sam the saw. It had to have been anger or the need for justice that made him act rashly. He crossed over to the shelf, grabbed a large heavy wrench and headed towards the stairs.

Before Sam figured out what he was up to, Dean had already leapt up the wooden stairs. Running to the base, he whispered loudly, "No Dean. Where're you going? No." But it was too late; his brother already sneaked through the door, searching for Mr. Jared. "And he called me the stupid one," Sam said to himself, coming back to Hannah. With the saw in hand, he began to cut through the tight rope, fast, worried about his brother.

The binds were pretty snug. Hannah flinched and cringed at every pull and tug. It was obvious she was incredibly weak. Sam was at least expecting a lecture. But he would be glad to savor that for later.

"Sam, where's your dad?" Hannah asked.

"He's not here. He doesn't know we came," Sam answered automatically, becoming confused at Hannah's look of horror.

"You're by yourself?" she nearly shrieked, her blood-shot eyes widening. Her lip trembled, "Oh God."

Sam was able to cut through one hand when loud pounding footsteps chorused on the above floor. They sounded to be heading toward the basement door. Hannah grew worried. She turned to Sam fretful, "Go Sam."

That stubborn streak saw no end. "No I can fight them," he said honorably, knowing he wouldn't have been able to get two hits in, but it did sound heroic. He went over to the other hand.

Hannah shook her head, "No honey. They're armed. It won't matter if you can fight them. Go now. Hide in the vent."

Sam picked up the panic in her tone and he instantly became scared. He looked at the ceiling. "What about dean?"

"Sam now!"

Hearing the basement door open, Sam dropped the saw and ran to the open vent. Climbing in, he scooted to the back, wrapping his arms around his legs, hearing the stairs creak as the perpetrator ambled down them. Fear consumed him, ensnaring everything. What if they found Dean? Though probably the guy would have ran down if they had found him. But that still didn't help the foreboding feeling. He kept still and quiet, listening, ignoring the bad feeling that once again blossomed in his gut.

Soon the bad guy appeared in sight. Luckily he kept his eyes on Hannah and had not seen the opening in the wall. The bad feeling escalated when recognition of the man's face prompted flashes. He remembered the man grappling him, putting him under his arm as he carried him out. But then he also remembered using the shotgun on him in the van. Remaining quiet, he listened carefully, trying hard not to make a sound.

Scrieber smiled, rocking back and forth on his heels, as if he were enjoying the baleful glare Hannah was giving him. "You just don't know when to quit, do ya?"

"Where's my husband?" Hannah rasped.

"Don't worry, you'll join him soon enough," the man answered sadistically. Smiling some more, he said, "Guess what pussylips. Boss wants us back in pronto, so that means time's running out. It turns out nobody's coming to your rescue. So either you tell me where the kid went or you give him up."

Hannah continued to glare, fuming mad. "Piss off."

Scrieber pursed his lips, nodding his head. "Yeah I figured you might say that." Hannah's eyes widened as he took out his handgun, aimed, and shot her in the middle of the forehead.

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

(Chapter 22)

**Yeah sorry for the last chapter, it certainly had some of you pissed off! I told ya I'm mentally unbalanced. But…as any, get ready for this one, because it's a doozy. So I hope I will be redeemed. There are only a few chapters left! Oh and also a mighty thank you goes out to Unholymuse for her support and impute for the last chapter. She definitely knocked some sense into me! Thanks, you rock!! **

Sam watched the scene unfold with dread when suddenly there were flashes. Bright lights exploded over his eyes.

"_Where's my husband?"_ he heard.

Sam was scared. Probably more frightened than he had been in his entire life.

"_Where's my husband?"_ he heard again, only it was muddled like the speaker were talking under water.

"_Don't worry, you'll join him soon enough. Guess what pussylips. Boss wants us back…"_

A blistering headache formed. He scrunched his eyes. It was an endless flow. Bright lights and flashes wove over his eyes like fireworks.

"…_where did the kid go or…"_

Flash. Another explosion of stars. He saw the man standing over Hannah with an eerie gaze, rocking back and forth. His eyes were still clenched shut, though. So how was he still watching? What was going on?

"_Piss off."_

The man gave a haughty chuckle still rocking on his heels. "Yeah I figured you might say that," and he pulled out his gun. Sam gasped. He watched the flash again revealing the man aiming. Then the gun chorused. Hannah's head bucked back.

_Flash._

Her head bucked back again.

_Flash._

He saw Hannah's lifeless eyes. Blood trickled down from the hole in her head.

Then he freaked. "NOOOOO…"

* * *

"Piss off," Hannah spat.

Scrieber had pursed his lips, donning a look of sheer delight for what he was about to do.

"Yeah I figured you might say that." His content at the woman's fear risen to new heights when he pulled out his pistol.

"NOOOOO…" A loud high-pitched scream rang out. Scrieber lowered the gun, looking around with interest. Next there were a series of whimpers. Following the cries, he pinpointed their location coming from inside the vent. The man hurried over, realizing it was a child's scream.

The last fuzzy lines from the vision cleared when Sam had screamed. His head still screaming, he shook it trying to rid of the aches. Then he opened his eyes, immediately wishing he hadn't. There the psychotic man stood, peering inside the hole with a winner's grin. He screamed again.

Scrieber thought he found gold. Reaching in, he clawed at the little legs, trying to gain a grip. "About time. Come here you little brat," he said gleefully.

Sam shuffled back as far as he could, worming out of the man's reach. When at last the man latched a meaty hand on the fabric of his jeans, panic set in and he bent down and bit him.

Scrieber screeched with pain, jolting backwards. "You little shit." Wiping his hand on the back of his jeans, he stuck his whole torso in, reaching for the boy. "Come here. I've had enough of you," he clamored.

"Leave him alone," Hannah hollered from behind.

That agonizing fear escalated. The man was mostly inside, reaching with both hands. And that fear was what propelled him into action. Sam immediately sat back on his rump and began kicking furiously. His feet connected with Scrieber's face. The man bucked and blinked in surprise, without any time to protect himself, the hits kept coming. Sam refused to let up and soon Scrieber backed out, hollering in pain, dropping his pistol to hold his nose as blood oozed through his fingers.

That was his opportunity. Sam quickly climbed out and gave the man a quick kick to the shin. Scrieber swung out with his fist into mid-air, obviously miscalculating a seven-year olds height. When the guy began to gain back his vision, Sam stepped back in fright.

"RUUNNN. SAM!" Hannah screamed. "RUUUNNN!"

He didn't need to be told twice. Kicking it into gear, Sam headed towards the stairs. He needed to find his brother. He was safer with him. Running up the creaky steps two at a time, Sam ran through the door and into the kitchen. He could hear the man's pounding footsteps racing behind him, further putting him into fifth gear. It was clear the house had been occupied by these imbeciles. The place was a mess with beer cans and trash littering the ground, food cartridges thrown all over the place, and nothing but the smell of cigarettes and gun powder hung like a stinky fish.

Sam charged through the kitchen door, coming along the stairwell. He was about to climb the stairs when Scrieber exited the kitchen laughing and clapping. Sam was intrigued, as any child would be. He hopped on the second step, watching and waiting. Scrieber continued to laugh, ceasing his clapping. "I gotta hand it to you kid, you're interesting. The most amount of work I've had yet. And I can't believe it, we finally gotcha." He looked up the stairs. "Oh Marty. We got him. Get on out here."

A door banged shut from upstairs. Soon the man with the eye-patch appeared at the top, dragging alongside him by the collar, Dean. The little boy squirmed and bounced, cursing a whole string of curses at him. Eye-patch just laughed it off, shoving him down the carpeted steps. "Turns out we have another visitor. Found him with the man of the house up in his bedroom. He sure is a spit-fire."

"You haven't seen nothing yet, jerk-off," Dean rudely retorted, still trying to jerk out his grip.

Punje chuckled, "Damn boy, you've got a mouth. I know a good remedy for curing that language," he shoved him again down a few more steps.

Sam remained still, keeping his front vision on Scrieber, his peripheral vision on Eye-patch. Scrieber came up to the stair rail, glancing at his partner, then back to Sam. "You don't know how much trouble you little shits have caused. Now I'm going to enjoy this. Cuz once the boss has you, we get our own little piece of magic. I've seen it with my own two eyes. Whatever you got kid, it's ours too."

A massive flood of confusion pounded into Sam. What was this idiot talking about? Magic? Whatever he has? Besides a cast and maybe a cold, he didn't have anything. He had an interest in cards, maybe that was the magic trick he was going on about? If not, then what was he talking about? He gazed up at Dean, who had the same look of bewilderment.

"You're crazy!" Dean said.

Scrieber chuckled some more. "I thought so too kid. But no, there's a whole new world out there. Boss showed us it all. And I'll get my calling in ten years, that's what he said. But I want it now."

"And I want a little payback," Punje but in, pointing at his eye.

"And guess what, you're the last one. With you, we can finally get what we've been promised. This goose chase ends now," Scrieber explained, launching forward, stretching his hands over the railing.

Sam leapt off the two stairs and ran into the dining room with Scrieber on his heels, just as Dean slammed a balled fist into Punje's groin. The man groaned bending over. The eleven year-old saw this as his opportunity to push him forward. Punje lost his grip on the child and he rolled down the flight of stairs. The kid jumped and landed on his chest, receiving a pain grunt. He took off heading into the livingroom.

Once Punje overcame the shock of it all, he scrambled to his feet angry. Jogging after the kid at a gait, he shot across the livingroom space at jet-like speed, tackling the kid to the ground. Still dizzy, the guy was unprepared when the kid rolled around and head-butted him in the face. He grunted at the tiny impact, which gave Dean the opportunity of crawling out. He hopped up and gave one mighty kick to the guy's face.

Grimacing at the sharp pain it put on his leg, Dean remained upright, accomplishing his turn for revenge. Only he wasn't so humorless about it. He jumped to the side as the guy grabbed for him, still shaking his head from the fall. "Oh, can't see me over here," Dean teased. He jumped to the other side, "How bout now, big boy?"

He miscalculated how close he jumped. Punje suddenly swiped an arm at his feet, taking them from under him. Dean fell onto his back. Punje then began to get to his feet just as Dean started crawling away fast. He scrambled up aiming for the iron poker suspended on a rack near the fireplace. Picking it up, he turned around prepared to swing when a vase smashed against the side of his head, immediately destroying his ear-piece. He fell over with a pained cry, clutching his head. Blood began to gush from his ear. The pieces of porcelain surrounded him, jutting into his skin as he lay there on the carpet. Punje hovered over his victim with a grin full of malice.

* * *

Sam made a beeline straight for the dining room table. Leaping onto the structure, he crossed to the other side and jumping off it, whirling around, waiting on his adversary. Scrieber emerged from the door, the smeared blood on his chin making him appear more sinister—like they were in a grade-B horror movie. Sam's legs jounced, almost running in place, impatient to see which direction Scrieber was going to come for him.

The man made a move to the left. Sam went around clockwise. Scrieber suddenly moved to the right, forcing Sam to stop in his tracks. Then as it were, a certain ring-around-the-rosy happened, with Sam and Scrieber shuffling back and forth all the while the man laughed and smiled, taunting.

Losing his breath, Sam made a quick decision and ducked under the table, crawling in between the chairs. Annoyed, the bastard picked up and threw the chairs to the side, moving them so he can reach for the little boy. Sam saw Scrieber's feet move behind him. Once he saw there was a clear path, he scampered out and ran back towards the stairs. With fear riding his backside, he pounced up the steps with ease, running towards his old bedroom.

"You can run kid, but you'll only get caught tired," Scrieber taunted, jogging up the steps. Sam hid in his room, sliding under the bed…the typical child response. He knew it was a matter of seconds before the man followed. And sure enough, the soles of his boots came into view, appearing larger than life from beneath the bed. He should have known that Scrieber would have figured out that the most likely place for a child to hide was under the bed. Seconds later, his psychotic face loomed into view.

"Enough of this crap. I'm tired of chasing ya. Get on out here," he reached under. Sam gasped, crying, backing away towards the edge of the wall. It was no use. The bear-like paw managed to catch his head, tugging and pulling fiercely. Sam's screamed bloody-murder as he was yanked out from under the bedspread.

Scrieber grinned with glee, finally catching his prize. But Sam wasn't done. Stopping his screams, he jumped up, wrapping his legs and arms around the man's arm, kinda like a monkey. His weight forced the man to hunch over. He tried to shake him off, but to no avail, Sam stayed put. Then out of a stroke of genius, or maybe because he was hungry, Sam bit down on the guy's sweaty wrist.

Scrieber howled with pain, shaking the child off more violently. "Get off. Get off, you little piranha!" Finally with one large shake, Sam flew off back out into the hallway. He spit out the nasty taste wiping his mouth, climbing to his feet. He took off while Scrieber clenched and unclenched his hand, grimacing in pain. "Oh you little…you little. What is it with you and your teeth? Ugh, I'm gonna get you." He left at a sprint.

Sam raced down the stairs, three at a time, coming around the staircase and running into the kitchen. Scrieber, seconds later made his way down, heading in the same direction, ignoring his partner's cries in the other room. Charging through the door, he froze in his tracks when he came face to face with the end hole of his nine millimeter. Hannah held the gun securely in her grasp, gazing murderously at the man. She kept a protective hand over Sam who clung onto her hip.

"You dropped something," she said darkly.

Scrieber gave a small laugh, now staring at her. "You're just a woman. You don't have it in you."

She pulled back the lever, that last ounce of sanity gone the minute these hooligans took the love of her life away. She wrapped her arm around Sam's head, covering his eyes and ears. "Big mistake," she replied, pulling the trigger.

The gunshot reverberated loudly throughout the room. The man fell to the ground with a great thud. Still peering murderously at her torturer, she tossed the gun away. Uncovering Sam's eyes, she knelt down and hugged the little boy in relief. That's when another gunshot went off.

Hannah gasped. "DEAN!"

* * *

Punje hovered over the boy intent on making him suffer to the last inch of his life. He bent down ready to deliver more pain, when the child pulled one on him and kicked him straight up his nose. He launched backwards, stumbling over the porcelain shards. Dean slowly struggled to his feet, a nasty wave of dizziness impeding that direct stimulus. He swayed a bit before regaining his posture.

Picking up the iron poker, he ran behind the entrance wall to the livingroom. He twisted the rod in his hands, ready for the man. Since his hearing was off the fritz, mainly due to the throbbing in his head, he listened to the vibrations. His only window. The wall pounded. The floor pulsed. Eye-patch was coming back. He stood at the ready. No way was he dying today and no way were these lutz' getting his baby brother.

Punje nearly crossed over. His outline was in sight. And that's when Dean swung with everything he had. The edge of the poker hit its mark into Punje's midriff, the sharp edge piercing in between his ribs. He jolted backwards, tripping over the edges of the carpet. His gun flew from his grasp as he fell, sliding across the floor.

Dean jumped into action. If he could get to the gun, then this would be all over and done with. He hadn't practiced shooting all the target cans off the fence for nothing. Reaching down, he was nearly there…until Eye-patch grabbed a hold of his leg, tripping him over onto his belly. He let out a huge grunt still reaching for the metal.

Punje dragged the kid backwards, away from it. He too crawled forward, aiming to get the pistol. Dean swung the side of his fist into the man's cheek. It was a small hit the guy overcame. They both scrambled over one another, knocking each other away. Punje had to give it to the kid, he was a far better opponent than most men he had met in his life. But still…

Once within reach, both charged for the gun, grabbing at it at the same time. Soon it was hands over hands…Dean trying to yank it out of the guy's hand; Punje trying to aim it at the kid. The fighting kept going on for what seemed like forever. Both were becoming tired. But their determinism knew no bounds.

Eventually the sound of the gun going off had them both freeze. Each gazed at one another with a wide, stunned expression. Punje looked at the kid for a moment longer, before cringing in pain. Tripping yet again on the carpet, he fell back clutching his leg.

"DEAN!" Dean heard a voice call.

With the gun now in hand, Dean stood over the perp, watching him writhe in agony over the pouring wound in his knee cap. Yeah, he had heard that was a painful place to take a bullet. He then took aim just as Hannah charged her way in, coming to a halt with Sam attached to her side. He let out a sigh of relief. Turning his gaze onto his brother, he said, "Told ya I can handle a handgun."

Hannah strode forward. "Alright hotshot, give it me," she softly demanded, holding her hand out. Dean bowed his head in disappointment, whining. Hannah dismissed it taking the handgun away. She turned to Sam. "Sam, go call the police. Dean, I need you to keep an eye on him."

Both nodded in affirmation, as she headed for the stairs, and just as a show of red and blue lights lit up outside. Sam came back to his brother's side. Dean bent over and grabbed hold of the iron poker. He held it up in a batter's stance. "Who's the bitch now?"

"Dean, watch your language," Hannah called out, running as fast as she could up the stairs. Given her condition, it wasn't very fast. Panting, she made her way down the hallway, checking into every room.

Upon opening the door to her bedroom, her heart nearly stopped. Jared was on the floor beside the bed, on his side, with multiple blood stains surrounding his body. He was pale. Bruises and welts covered his face, and arms. There were a couple of tourniquets on his legs. But what was worse, was how death-like he appeared. It took her a full minute to overcome the shock of it, and prayed it will never haunt her.

Shakily coming forward, she called his name. "Jared." There was no answer. Fighting hard not to cry, she called him again, "Jared, honey. Jared."

She fell next to him still calling his name. Patting his cool cheek, she cried out, "Come on baby. Come on wake up now. It's over. It's finally over. Please Jared wake up." When there was no response, angrily, she pounded his chest several times. "Jared! Jared no!"

Reaching down, she squeezed the bullet wound in his leg, aiming for a Pulp-Fiction response. Still nothing. She smacked his cheek. "Don't you dare leave me. Don't you dare. Jared, please," she was an emotional train-wreck. The broken pump of tears cascaded down, and she cried. She cried hard. Her husband was gone. Dead. No, how could he be? It can't be.

She continued to cry, laying her head down on his chest. Harrowing sobs escaped past her throat, painful as her throat was still raw. She thought she would never be able to leave this spot. Not as long as she lived. Breathing through her painful cries, she tried to soften them.

And for a fleeting second, when they were silent, she heard something. She paused. It was faint. Like a faint throb. She lifted her head and it was gone. Replacing her ear back on Jared's chest, she held her breath long enough to listen. And there it was: a heartbeat.

It was faint, very slow. A sensor probably wouldn't have picked up on it, but it was there.

"Oh my God," she laughed out of relief. "Oh my God. You're so stubborn. Thank God you're so stubborn," she said kissing his lips. Running a hand through his sticky hair, she laid by his side, muttering several 'thank you's' to whoever would listen, waiting for the cops and paramedics to come for them. They were together again. The bad guys were dead. And the kids were safe. In that moment, she breathed a fresh breath of life again…and it felt good.

**And yes, you can breathe now. The bad guys are through. The Winslow's are safe along with the boys. And yes folks, Sammy did have a vision. So y'know to be clear. And I know this chapter seemed a bit far-fetched, (come on, two little kids taking on two psychotic losers! I know) but keep in mind this is fiction, and I got carried away. I had a lot of fun writing, so I hope, having said this, you had fun reading. Now we get to find out what John, Bobby, and Caleb find. You're in for a treat. Hopefully that won't be so far out in left field! Stay tuned. **


	23. Chapter 23

(Chapter 23)

**So, yeah! This was supposed to be up last Thursday, but thanks to my lovely Library-this had to be delayed because the place closed early for council meetings. Go figure. Don't they have buildings for that? Anyway, so since I was going out of town all last weekend, I decided 'what the hay' and go ahead and finish. And a week later, I finally did!**

**So here you go guys, the rest of the story is up. The last three chapters! Grab yourself a soda, some popcorn, and a lounge chair, it's gonna be awhile! Have fun and don't forget to leave me a review…if you want to! Cheers! **

It was a stiff silence. Everyone was quiet, hardly finding the spit to say something. Not a bug crawled, nor a fly buzzed. A knife could cut through the eeriness of it, it was so thick. Doctors and nurses murmured on the outside of the small hospital room, their whispers barely permeating the dead air.

Hannah stared absentmindedly. Probably out of shock. Probably out of exhaustion. At that point, she didn't know…and hardly gave a shit anyhow. The nasty bruises and cuts shined, smeared with a numbing/antibacterial agent, according to the physician. She had known better, more than likely it was Neosporin. She was cleaned, and the rest of her injuries were wrapped with ace bandages. She could hardly find sleep. Her nerves wired off the deep end. Her eyes hardly blinked. If it weren't for her fingers moving up and down, giving gentle strokes to the little boy's back, someone might have announced she was catatonic.

Sam stared too, only not out into space, but at the unconscious occupant in the colossal hospital bed before him. He sat in Hannah's lap, resting his head on her shoulder, enjoying the caressing strokes. It helped with the guilt and the worry. Dean, he believed, without hesitation would have insisted to hold him and rub his back, but his big bad brother was in the next room getting patched up.

And that was worrisome as well. Sam had offered to stay with him, keep him company, but Dean shooed him away, claiming he was a big boy and could be seen alone. The little brother smirked walking out the room. He knew his brother all too well. Dean wasn't being macho. He just didn't want to be seen upset again when the doctor came to fix the damage rendered to his ear. Coming back into Mr. Jared's room, he, without asking, climbed onto Hannah's lap. She took him up almost immediately.

Mr. Jared looked incredibly pale, his skin almost translucent. The cuts and bruises shining like purple dots. He hadn't woken. Nor had he stirred. A pale green oxygen mask covered most of his nose and mouth. Wires and tubes were visible, attached all over. A bright blue blood pressure cuff encircled his left bicep, periodically taking a reading. The numbers on the machine flashed bright every time there was a change. And there were a lot of changes. His foster parent was in real bad shape.

Sam had heard the doctors read off his list of injuries: multiple contusions, a break in his left forearm, several other breaks in three of his ribs, fluid in his lungs, and a near case of sepsis due to the gun wounds, but with minor bloodloss. He didn't necessarily understand the list, but given the growing devastation on Hannah's face, he could tell it wasn't anything good. The doctors had no encouraging remarks, hadn't in the last four hours.

Jared's Aunt, Uncle and Cousin had come by now and again, and were now sitting in the waiting lounge, patiently. It was after one of the cousin's discourteous retorts about watching out for kids who love finding trouble that had Hannah about to commit another murder. Already riled up and frazzled over the last forty-eight hours, she zoomed across the room, clobbering the frizzy-hair mongrel in between his no-good buck teeth. When she came in for seconds, the orderly staff had to drag her back, while the others ushered the family out.

When beaten, exhausted, and still in shock, Hannah was not a woman to be messed with…especially after making uncalled-for remarks about the children she cared for and who had saved her and her husband's life. Billie learned that first hand, which was why he sat holding an ice-pack to his mouth with his mother and father shooting him baleful glares.

The cops came and went, soon after Billie's little mishap, taking their statements and comparing stories. They went to Hannah first, bracing themselves, hoping to come out in one piece. Once her statement was taken and they realized they were alive, they questioned the kids. Sam and Dean's story fit to the tee. They were crossing into the neighborhood wanting another visit, when they heard the screams. Claiming ignorance was the key in both Sam and Dean's mind. They claimed that hadn't known better and snuck into the house. That's when the psychos came after them and luckily Hannah got the one up and shot one dead.

At that point in time, Pastor Jim had showed up. It turned out he had already talked to the authorities, lying, saying he lived nearby and the boys were visiting him. He hadn't known they took off. And when he realized they had, that's when he called the authorities immediately. The cops nodded, agreeing, confirming that the story matched the others. They ruled the situation as a break-in and enter, and as self-defense in Hannah's case, and left quickly after. Sam and Dean were happy the cops were dealt with, but their instant happiness died a swift death when they saw the Pastor's angry/disapproving look. They knew they were in for it. And they absolutely couldn't wait until their Dad showed up. Sam began to wonder if he should start packing his trousers full of TP right now, get a head start to soften the blow.

Jim surprisingly came through, already having talked to John earlier that morning. And it was a good thing he had showed up, because Hannah was very stern about either suing or having the authorities track and find the missing father and quote "slice em' and dice em' and throw him out to the dogs". Even if it was possible to turn John into Chop Suey, Jim, at that point, felt he had no choice but to tell her the whole truth, stoutly using the eyes of God as his witness.

He openly admitted that it was wrong to have lied and deceived them, but John's actions mainly were to keep the Winslow's and his son's safe. He found it necessary to include the bit where John was now tracking and stopping the ones responsible, except with limited detail about the hunting for demons brigade. That wouldn't have ended well…. Surprisingly, Hannah believed him. It might have been exhaustion, but the woman reluctantly accepted his words, declining her potential hunt for John, and retreated back into her husband's room.

Jim gave a sigh of relief. He had never felt so frightened in the presence of a woman before. It had to be the devilish stare, and the 'you better not be fucking with me' attitude that had him uneasy. As a pastor, having met many people of all types, he knew when to stop and step back. Afterwards, he decided to wait in the waiting room, either for John to show up or until the family was given the all-clear. One thing was for sure, the kids were to remain with the couple for the time being. He knew instantly that trying to take them back to the cabin was a losing battle and would have complicated matters.

The silence in the hospital room was broken not long after. The door opened and in was wheeled another bed with a very moody-looking Dean on top of it. He was quiet, and Sam wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

The young brunette nurse rolling him in, pressed on the bed-brakes and turned, sliding the bed into the side slot. "Now if you're quiet, you can stay in here for the rest of the time, okay honey?"

Dean didn't answer at first. He merely nodded his head with a glazed eye. Then said: "Qui-aye-iiittt. Assss sah chuurrccha. Mooww-se."

_Uh oh, he's on drugs!_ Was Sam's first thought.

The nurse gave a small laugh. "Good. That's good there buddy. Now get some sleep. The doc will be back soon to check if there is any more damage. Alright?"

This time Dean answered by giving a _Sisko and Ebert_ 'two thumbs up'. The nurse hiked up his blanket, then left giving the other two conscious drug-free occupants a sweet nod.

Sam immediately and softly climbed off Hannah, darting to Dean's bed. Hannah didn't disapprove. In fact, she was glad of it. Blinking for the first time in fifteen minutes, she carefully climbed onto her husband's bed, and fell asleep by his side.

It took some major acrobatics for Sam to climb onto his brother's bed. The nurse hadn't lowered the leg pegs, so the bed was a good four to five feet off the ground. Luckily for Dean, but unfortunately for Sam, the guard rails were up. Grabbing a chair, Sam leapt into the seat. Grasping the handle bars, he took a deep breath and jumped on top of the guard rail resembling a midget gymnast. Teetering on the bar with his stomach, he tipped down and slid onto the mattress and his brother's legs.

Dean groaned. "Come on Sam! Whatchaa doin'?" he slurred petulantly.

Sam 'oophed', grimacing and rubbing at the soreness on his tummy, then laid flat next to his brother. He looked up and saw Dean gazing over at the opposite wall, blinking heavily. He also saw an IV drip with a needle inserted into Dean's hand. It looked painful. Red swelling appeared around the intrusion site. But it seemed like Dean hardly noticed.

Still staring across space, Dean admitted, "I cried like a baby. I didn't want no more needles. I hate needles. But the darn dude said that if I didn't get a needle, my ear's going to hurt worse."

"Does it hurt now?" Sam asked.

Dean didn't answer, just continued to stare.

"Dean?"

"Huh?" Dean snapped out of his reverie. "What'd you say? You gotta speak up?"

Sam huffed. "Fine," he called out a little louder, then gasped, afraid he woke up Hannah. Looking over, he rested easy when no one stirred. Turning back to Dean, he enunciated again, "Does. Your. _Ear_. Hurt. _Now_?"

Pursing his lips, Dean shook his head. "Nah. I feel _gooooddddd_. Itsa justa throbbin'. And they said something about this and somethin' about that, and then I think Miranda-she's that nurse. I like her," he shook his head again, preparing for more dished out details.

Sam watched with amused interest. "But anyway, they said something about my ear-aid. I think that the insurance won't take care of another one. And then I said 'what insurance?' Ooooh, that really got them going. And then they had to muck, and nuck, and yuck at it. It was gross. Can't tell ya how much drainage there was, ick! So now my ear is justa throbbin'. Soon I think it's gonna be a pulsin'." The kid stopped short of breath.

Mustering up a comical grin, he finished with "Yep, a pulsin'."

Sam snorted, unable to get over how deliberately outspoken Dean was when on meds. He made a mental note of it, for if ever there were a time when he needed Dean to confess about something. "I bet. Hey Dean, since you're feeling _goooooddddd_. Can I tell you something?"

"Suurrreee."

Though still uplifted over Dean's drug-induced behavior, another awful bout of worry sprouted again, mainly over the particular day-dream he had. Sam wasn't sure if he should tell his brother. But it scared him. Well, partly. The whole situation that transpired that morning had scared him, keeping his nerves alert and high-wired. But what happened inside the vent, it scared him above all else. "Dean, I had a dream."

"Okay Martin Luther King, what was your dream?" Dean asked sarcastically, grinning happily.

Sam donned a peculiar expression. "Who's Martin Luther King?"

Even under a mighty-fine pain killer, Dean gawked at his brother stupidly as if he was about to say _'how can you _not_ know who MLK was?'_, "Nevermind. You were saying?"

Sam shook his head. He was uncertain if he should go on, tentative that his brother was going to make fun of him. "I don't know. It was weird."

"Okay?"

"No I mean it was really weird. I had it when I was awake. I had it when I was hiding in the vent from the bad man. It…" he hesitated. Now would be a great time for that streak of courage, like the one he had when facing the bad guy, would hit him. But as his luck had rendered, it was a lost cause.

His lip trembled. "I had a dream that Mrs. Hannah died." He waited for a response. When Dean said nothing, his uncertainty crept up a notch or two. Even a sarcastic remark would have been something. The silence only made it worse. So he continued. "I had a dream she died. That…the man killed her. With his gun," he took a deep breath, "First, I don't know…but first I had this really bad headache. I mean it was killer. Then there was all these flashes and lights and I don't know, but it was like I kept seeing the same thing over and over again, y'know? And it freaked me out, because it was so…so…real. I thought it really happened. Like it was real! It felt real, y'know?"

This time Dean did speak. It was slurred, but still it seemed coherent. "I don't know Sammy. I don't know what to tell ya. It might have been a really bad dream. Did you fall asleep?"

"No," Sam whined, "No I was awake. That was the weird thing. I ran to the vent right when the guy came down. I was really scared to go to sleep. I mean, can it be like the magic trick that guy was talking about? I can't do nothing else."

Dean gave a 'hmmm', like he was trying to think, only the lights weren't on. "Sam, I really wish I had an answer for ya buddy, but I don't. In fact, that kinda freaks me out. And I guess with _stuuuffff_ like that, I'd say something to Dad. So first I'm gonna take a nap. And when I wake up, I'll tell Dad. He knows what to do. That's all I know, m'kay."

The puckering of the lips started and Sam gave his brother a 'fine' but dissatisfied look. "Fine," he grounded out. He really had hoped to have an explanation then. Patience certainly was a virtue he skipped out on.

Dean turned his head. "You said your head hurt when you had this dream, right? Does it still hurt now? Cuz if it does, you gotta try this stuff. You can see a whole bunch of stuff you didn't know that was there. Hmmmm…"

"No, my head was fine after I started running up the stairs. I guess I kinda forgot about it," Sam answered, rolling his eyes.

"M'kay," Dean slurred closing his eyes. But that didn't stop the motor in his mouth from running. "It'll be okay, Sammy."

"Sam!" Sam interjected exasperatedly.

"Oh, I'm so _sooorrryy_, Sam! Mr. Macho Man. I'll talk to Dad about it for sure," he subconsciously wrapped an arm around the tiny shoulders.

Sam nestled closer to his big brother, feeling awfully tired now too. But there was one last thing to say, "Thank you big brother for saving my life."

For that he got furrowed eyebrows, but Dean's eyes remained shut. "How? You saved mine."

"No, you did. If it wasn't for you, I'd never gotten out of the van," Sam whispered.

Dean opened his eyes to slits as the dawning significance of that statement sprung on him. He'd never believe it. But then he was on a sedative. He could have heard differently. But still, he couldn't help but smile. "Anytime Sammy. Anytime."

And then they fell asleep. And when Dean would wake up later that afternoon, he would completely forget having the conversation. And that's why Sam would later on in life learn to never tell his brother any vital piece of information (except on special occasions) when he was either drugged, drunk, or just plain old tired, because he would never fail to forget.

* * *

At the time when the kids and the Winslow's were being treated, John was still on phone with Jim. He paced back and forth in front of Bobby and Caleb. Each pass had either a look of dread or a small smile. Only hearing his side of the conversation, plus interpreting his facial expressions, had the two men tingle with unease.

About an hour and a half had gone by and still the hunters remained beside their vehicles. Either one of them refused to leave until they received good news regarding the boys. Caleb pointed out that until they heard the news and got it off their chests, the worry would hang over them and put them all at risk. John agreed his suggestion was for the best. More than likely Caleb had mentioned that due to the erratic and uncertainty emanating from the man. Lord knows, he of all people, needed to have his head clear. As they all did.

The phone conversation was drawing to a close, judging by the occasional stops. John turned and headed towards them, stopping in close proximity. Bobby and Caleb leaned forward and caught the last part of Jim's voice.

"Don't worry. I'll give the boys a lecture."

John half-laugh, half-smiled. "You do that. Soften 'em up for me. Don't tell them this, but I'm still proud of them."

That got Bobby and Caleb's attention.

"We all are John. Call me back when you're done," Jim said.

"Will do Pastor," He hung up and turned back around, noticing the other two hunters' curious and inquisitive stares. He snorted. "Boys are fine. They're safe. And so are the Winslow's."

"No effing way!" Caleb exclaimed, "They're still alive!"

"Yeah," John couldn't believe it either, "Jim says their in real bad shape though, but they're still alive. He says that Scrieber and his buddy beat and tortured the Mister and that he almost didn't make it…and still is not looking good. The wife has a whole bunch of cuts and bruises, but she's overall okay. But…Jim also says that she's madder than a hornet when its nest has been blown to pieces. So, if we make it through this, I got my hands full."

"It's okay Johnny, we'll be there to back ya up—mostly. And we'll make sure you do come out of this. Don't want to miss the show," Bobby reassured, "But what happened to the other guys? What's going on with Scrieber and his pal? Were they arrested?"

"The buddy was. But Scrieber's dead. It turns out that the Missus did it. Found the gun and blew his head off. And good riddance," John informed, agreeing with Caleb's huff of relief.

"Ha, that's kinda like poetic justice, y'know?" Caleb remarked, "The guy beats on women and kids, believing they're inferior and stupid, and in the end one blows his head off."

John nodded, "Pretty much."

"Well, that's good to hear. So now we don't have to worry about those two chuckleheads, we just have two morons here to deal with, right?"

"I don't think so. There are demonic omens popping up for a reason," he gave him a stern look, "We can't take our chances with this one, not when there are kids who are probably relying on us. Do you still have those charms?"

Bobby took a moment to consider. Once it dawned on him where the little anti-possession trinkets may be, he hopped up and strode back over to his Chevelle. Opening the middle compartment in between the two seats, he pulled out a small leather pouch, coming back and delegating one each to the other two men. John nodded appreciatively, stowing his into his front pocket.

Pulling the strap of his army duffel over his shoulder, John cocked his sawed-off with his other hand. "Okay, let's get this over and done with. It ends today. We do this right or not at all. Copy?"

"Copy," the others replied in unison.

Then together they all set out, with their guns full of rock-salt in hand, side by side, beginning to trek through the woods, following Bobby's directions. Luckily since wearing their good scruffy jeans, the troop finally managed to travel through the underbrush, only stopping a few times when nasty thorn plants snagged. It was a good twenty to thirty minutes before a clearing opened and the sun's magnificent rays shined through. Walking into the clearing, the three men shielded their eyes taking in the view of a large field, in the background a small white farmhouse with a large dilapidated barn beside it.

John was the first to step ahead. It was in that moment, he felt they couldn't turn back. Slinging the shotgun over his free shoulder, he continued on into the tall grasses, staying close to the edge of the forest. The others followed his lead. About half-way to the premises, they all simultaneously crouched down low beginning to jog.

The barn was the first they reached. Slinking to the back corner, John sneaked a peek. The houses' inside lights were on and shadows were moving. His first instinct was to barge right through its front door with guns blazing. But the logic side of his brain had his feet remain put. Crouching lower to the ground, he listened intently, checking his surroundings, looking for a way in. Glancing to the left, he quickly saw an old traditional basement entrance with the double doors. He smirked. That was his way in.

Bobby frog-crawled up beside him. Also glancing around, he said, "I think I heard something coming from inside. You and Caleb get inside the house. I'll check out the barn, scoop out the rest of the place," he suggested in a whisper.

John nodded in agreement. He spoke in a dead-on command, "If you find the kids, don't wait for us. Get em' out to the car and we'll meet you there."

"Okay," Bobby confirmed, taking another glance around before stepping backwards and going around to the right side wall.

John held out his hand with three fingers. "Caleb, you ready?"

Caleb re-cocked his gun. "Oh yeah. Let's do this."

At his reply, John immediately began counting down his fingers. When he got down to the one finger, Caleb tensed with excitement. _Go!_ John didn't give the command; he didn't need to. Once his index finger curled in, they set off like there were rockets under their soles, running fast across the brown and dying yard. It seemed like no one had noticed two weapon-heavy figures cross over behind the white house. They reached the basement door seemingly without being spotted. That was either a good thing…or a really bad thing.

The double doors were unlocked. _Seriously leaning towards the bad thing._ John easily and slowly inched opened the left door, with Caleb standing vigil. Creeping onto the dark stairs, he waited until his fellow friend was carefully crawling inside before he descended. Once both men entered the stale musty room, each took out his flashlight and slowly descended into the darkness.

* * *

Hunkering beneath a dusty paint-chipped window, Bobby poised his gun, searching left and right for any unwanted by-lookers. Moving slowly, he briefly glimpsed through the dirty window pane. On the inside, it appeared there was one man, the big burly black guy he recognized as one of Shaggy's cohorts, sitting on a stairwell not twenty-feet from the window. There wasn't much else he saw, only a few iron-pegged cages behind him.

He ducked back down, catching his breath. After a minute, needing another look, he did so, confirming that the only other viable exit was the doors in the front. The odds seemed pretty grim if he were to bust in all commando style. Besides he liked the stealthy way in, it gave him the advantage. But…even in stealth mode, he had to get in somehow.

A crackle of thunder sounded overhead causing him involuntarily to look up. Dark clouds were rolling in, but that wasn't what put on a big clown grin on his face. On the side of the window were wooden blocks, a ladder built into the side, leading up to the top. Hanging open on rusty hinges was a pair of broken door-panels. He nodded a finger at the sky, thanking the man upstairs, before heaving to his feet and climbing up the tiny panels.

It was hard work. Definitely had put him into a sweat by the time he reached the top. He could feel the aches of his aging body had already begun. Carefully inching inside, mindful of the creaks and squeaks the doors and floors gave off, he moved across the dusty flooring.

Coming to the top of the staircase, he peered over and saw the burly guy still sitting at the bottom step. He had his head propped up on his hand, his head tilting a little to the side. _Was he?_ Bobby looked again and listened. It was silent, but he was sure he heard a snore. Yep, the scoundrel was sleeping! Bobby almost laughed with disbelief; with how easy this was turning out to be.

Still moving stealthily, he took a look around. The element of surprise was definitely in his favor. Catching sight of a twenty-pound sack of potatoes, an idea sprung. That goofy smile failed to wane as he lifted it up easily and carried it over to the stairs. Suspending it in the air, he cried out "Tally-ho!" alerting the guy just briefly before the sack fell on top of his head. The man let out a big ol' oomph and then fell off the staircase in a great heap.

Bobby chuckled, "Dumbass," as he descended the stairs.

He didn't bother to check if the guy was out for the count as he was keen on everything else. Moving more into the opening with rafters of hay-lofts on both sides, he continued to the front, checking and searching for any other guard. So far it was quiet. No one lurked in the shadows, nor had the sound of a gun clicked. He stopped short at the iron-cages with his gun poised.

A squeak sounded behind him. He froze. Then the sound of more squeaks along with whimpering chorused. He looked behind him and there he saw a tiny pale hand stretch out from in between the bars. His heart did a somersault, maybe two. Peering through the bars, he saw the outlines of five sickly-looking, starved children. His jaw fell agape, totally stunned at the condition of these kids. Some were stick-thin, others ghostly-pale huddled together—probably to keep warmth—and almost all were in dirty worn pajamas. Who knew how long they were stuck in there?

Bobby glanced at the other two cages to the left of the occupied one, and noticed they were both empty, the cage doors left open. A nasty wave of anger wrought through him, and there was no possible way of holding it back.

Gently taking up the small hand, noticing it belonged to a little boy with dark tousled hair, he said, "Hang on tight. I'm gonna getcha outta here. Hang on."

The boy's bright dark eyes shined. He donned a big mighty grin. "Thank you mister. And it's about time somebody came," he said in a slur as if he had a cold. Judging from the runny nose, he probably did.

"What's your name son?"

"Andy sir. Andy Gallagher from Gothrie, Oklahoma. You know they blindfolded me all the way here. It was _so_ _cool_, kinda like in the movies…until," he grimaced, "they put me in here. It's been nice, we love sleeping on hay."

Now he knew the boy was being sarcastic. He smiled, realizing he found a talker.

"I tried working at the locks, but their solid metal. Not much to chew at either. Haven't been in here long, but boy am I glad to see you," Andy exclaimed, "Cuz these guys are really starting to stink back here, especially the one in the corner."

Bobby smiled again. It was good to see that after everything that has happened to these kids, at least one of them still had spirit. "No problem Andy. Give me a minute and let me find something to get you out of here"

He let go of the little boy's hand, setting down his gun, and began to work on the iron lock. Apparently it took a key. Glancing around for a good wedge or hammer, but found none. Instead he found a hefty crowbar hanging on a nearby pillar. That would have to do.

Whilst going to get it, he stopped at the sound of a gun click. Whirling around, he came face-to-face with the burly man pointing an Eagle Magnum at him. He gulped, feeling uneasy about the circumstances. But then he noticed the slight shake in the man's hand, somewhat calming him down. Obviously this guy hadn't had much time in handling a gun. Nevertheless, the gun was still pointed his way.

Bobby raised his hands in surrender while the guy, shaking his head from the previous hit, edged closer. He didn't say anything, just pointed. Thinking of a good way to get out of this predicament (and no doubt he would, cuz let's face it-he's been in worse positions), he twisted his foot into the dirt flooring, creating a little rut. Out in his peripheral vision, he saw a looped chain hanging on the pillar.

The guy came closer, clasping a hand over his head. Bobby looked closer and saw through the swaying and the dilated pupils that the man was seriously drunk. No way would the potato sack make him this dizzy. His suspicions were confirmed when the man belched and slurred out, "You stupid old man. What'd you think you were going to take the kiddies and leave? You think it was going to be that easy?"

Bobby glowered at the man. "Yeah, I do. And yes, I'm taking these kids outta here, you vile pathetic wretch."

The man cocked back the lever, shaking his head, his bloodshot eyes bulging. "Nope, I don't think so. We don't get our gold until the boss gets his first. The boss has to have these monsters. He needs them. He has to drain them all dry first before we get our just desserts. No more robbing maids. I'm gonna be a king. All we need are these kids. And he might as well, they're not human."

Bobby began to chisel his teeth, sickened at the brute's words. "You see that's where you're wrong. It's not who you are that makes you a monster, it's what you do. And I gotta tell ya, you're not laying a single hand on them ever again. I'll see to it that you don't," Bobby relayed. His eyes blazed as the inner beast was raging. He wanted to put this good-for-nothing piece of shit's head up his ass. If it had been humanely possible, he probably would have done so to a lot of former ill-acquaintances.

Burly man chuckled, "Ha, don't make me laugh. You're not the one with gun here Pops. You're in no position to tell me what you are going to do. Ha, that's a good one." The gun faltered a bit. Bobby's eyes glinted.

"Yeah, I am," he said more defiantly.

The guy laughed some more, closing his eyes. And that was his undoing. Swiftly Bobby reached out and grabbed a hold of the chain. Swinging the loose metal, it swiped the gun out of the man's hand. Surprised and without options, Burly charged forward. Bobby easily spun to the side inside his little rut, the man flying past him and into the iron cage. The kids shrieked at the loud clanging noise. The drunken idiot stumbled back to his feet. He was unprepared as the hunter lunged at him swinging the rusty chain again, slinging it across his face. Being uncoordinated, Burly was unable to get back up.

The raging beast inside finally broke free. Spit-balling mad, Bobby stalked over, lifted the man by his face and planted good two or three knuckle-sandwiches. The audacity of some people to treat children the way they do, and believe it's still ethical—that there is nothing wrong with it. It only fueled the rage. Ramming his knee into the jerk's jaw, he lifted him up again, bringing his head down harshly over the iron bars on the waist-high cages.

It was a good few minutes of beating, punching, kicking, and using whatever device that was within reach to put the guy down for good. He was broken and well bloody by the time he was finished. Embarrassingly, the man broke out in tears, crying for him to stop, for no more. Still fuming, Bobby acquiesced to his request by dragging the lout towards the closet wooden pillar and wrapping the chain around him, securing it tightly, by hanging the end piece on a nail high-up. The man slumped within his confines. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Bobby stood back, still glowering. He remarked, "Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son."

Quickly, taking the crowbar, he ran back to the cage and began throwing his weight into each hit. It took three heavy strokes before the lock broke off. Opening the door, he motioned for the kids (who all stood cuddled with each other in a corner, shaking) to come on out. He had to ignore Andy's "Whoa Mister" and emphasize that he was taking them back to their parents before they finally complied. Each child, two boys and two girls, slowly clambered out and stood off to the side.

Bobby peered in and saw one little boy lying on his side way in the corner. Crawling in, he rolled the little boy who was grotesquely thin and weak over and cradled him. Exiting the smelly enclosure, he straightened out shifting the boy more securely in his grasp. Looking at the others, he said softly, "Okay now, we need to be quiet, alright?" To which he was rewarded with nods.

Walking on, he said, "Follow me. Hold hands and take care of each other. We're going to take a little ride and see your parents. In the mean time, who wants a happy meal?" All the kids gasped for hunger, the tousled-haired Andy in the back piped up "Me! And it better come with an action figure!" and then was immediately hushed.

Bobby gave a small chuckle, darting out from the front door of the barn and back down the road towards his Chevelle; the kids queuing up in a line behind him.

**Yay, the kiddies have been rescued. I told ya, you didn't want to piss off Bobby. Hope you liked the kid version of Andy. I tried making him funny, cuz he's one of my fave characters on the show!!! Keep going to find out what John and Caleb gets tangled in. The next one is a pretty hectic one. As for this chappie, I have to send out a large thank you to Monkeymuse, who yet again helped me out with the tid bit about Dean's insurance. Thanks girl, you rock as always!!**


	24. Chapter 24

(Chapter 24)

**Now that you've managed to get through the last chapter, you probably need a refill on that drink and a bathroom break! Trust me, you're gonna need it! Here's the penultimate chappie! Enjoy!**

John and Caleb learned the hard way no matter how slow they moved or how tiny their footsteps were, the creaking never stopped. It was a wonder no one had acknowledged their presence. Creeping further into the dark basement, a pair of old worn steps loomed into view. Simultaneously taking out both of their guns, they silently crept up the stairs, Caleb filing behind John. Opening the door a smidge, John used his instincts for the all clear.

Then they both slid through, entering an antiquated kitchen with the fire-stove directly ahead and empty, dusty countertops and cabinets. Cobwebs adorned most of the place, including the faded bright white walls. Instead they were more of dirty beige. The place smelt musty, rank with age. Though the discontinued use of the kitchen did strike John as being odd. If the bastards were squatting in this run-down shack, then at least some of it should be in use (especially the kitchen!)

He didn't let it bother him. The hunters carried on, covering each other, pressing their backs against the termite-infested walls. With John still in the lead, they entered a large mostly empty room with a frayed apple-red high-back chair centered in front of a fireplace. Judging from the smoking embers, the fire was put out a short while ago: meaning their targets were still in the vicinity.

Pointing for Caleb to take lead, using his Marine coordination gestures, John held back, spiraling around listening for the enemy. That's when the lights flickered, dimming and glowing bright again in intervals. Then a bright light illuminated on the ceiling, lines shining through the cracks in the tiles. And suddenly a child-like scream was heard. Without hesitation, the two men bounded for the stairs located in the adjacent room.

Not really caring if they were heard, they ran up the creaky steps towards the cries. Near the top, a door was slammed and suddenly the buck-toothed moron appeared, brandishing a small knife. John jumped up in time for the knife to barely slice his side. Caleb raised his gun and pulled the trigger, the blast sending the moron into the wall. He fell gasping and cringing, pulling at his chest from where the rock-salt laid embedded. John came forward and immediately silenced him with the butt of his gun.

Following the dying screams to a room located down the hallway. Barging through, the duo stopped and backed, shielding their eyes against the bright light. Eyes watering, John risked a peek and saw a shadowed figure kneeling with his hands raised, holding onto…

Instantly he recognized the source of the cries. Aiming his shotgun, he pulled the trigger sending the figure spiraling away. There was a flash, along with a bright glow, then instantly the light ceased, revealing a moldy bedroom with two sets of rusty bed frames with moth-eaten mattresses on both sides of the room. The cries dulled to whimpers.

With their eyes adjusted back, John and Caleb rushed in. Whipping out the flask of holy water from his jacket pocket, John stepped on the figure—a middle-aged man dressed in a red, silky robe (definitely the villain). He would have appeared human was it not for the black eyes and longer than average finger-nails. Flinging the water all over him, the man shrieked in pain as wisps of steam billowed off him. John took great pleasure in it.

Caleb immediately went for the child, shaking, on the right side bed. The boy continued to whine and whimper as though in pain. Tear tracks were visible on his dark skin. "Shhh," Caleb cooed, rubbing the side of his face, "It's okay. We're gonna get you out of here."

The little boy didn't answer, but nodded, extending out his hands. Caleb instantly took him up into his arms, rushing out of the room. "What's your name buddy?"

"J-J-Jake," the child's lip trembled.

Caleb smiled, "Good Jake. Now hold on tight. We'll get you back to your parents in no time."

Back in the room, the demon on the ground continued to writhe in agony as the water sluiced over its wan skin. Steam began to rise from the short blonde spikes of hair. It was damn comical in John's opinion.

"That's right you son of a bitch! You don't like it now do you?" he voiced, stepping on the man's chest. Still the demon continued to writhe, rolling. It was then that John noticed a particular mark, a black brand resembling a blend between a sparrow and a cross etched into his neck. He pressed his foot harder. "After today, you're not going to hurt anyone, and whatever plan you got cooking, you're not getting anywhere near those kids or my son ever again."

The man suddenly stopped writhing and he eyed John with a smirk. Confused, John doused him with more water. Now it was as though it had no effect on him. There was no steam, nor boils of the skin.

"Your son, eh?" the demon asked in a cool George Clooney tone. _Uh oh!_

The man tilted his chin up and away the hunter went. An invisible force tugging at his naval, John sailed backwards, his feet skimming the floor, until his back slammed into the wall. Gritting his teeth, he struggled, but to no avail, whatever held him up was not relenting. He instantly berated himself for underestimating what appeared to be a simple demon.

The demon lifted himself off the floor with ease, dusting his hands off his shiny robe. He donned a little smirk, the black eyes glinting in triumph. "Well now, what do we have here? A hunter, I presume. Swell."

Well, that's not something you hear a demon say now-a-days! _Swell, hmmm._ John stayed quiet, his anger and revulsion at the creature stewing. He glanced at the flask of holy water.

The demon drew closer. He peered behind him following John's gaze. "Sorry, but I'm afraid your God-juice hardly works on me. But I sure fooled you in the beginning, hadn't I?"

He stared quizzically into John's blazing eyes. "Not the loquacious type, I see. That's good. I'm all for less chatter," he smiled, showing yellow stained and cracked teeth, "So, I kidnapped your child?"

At his prisoners silence, he surmised, "Or not. Hmmm, your take on the matter leads me to speculate that your son was the one that escaped. He's the one we've been looking for, for some time now. Hymph, now it all makes sense," he bopped his head up and down, "Of course, a hunter's child would be the most challenging to acquire. It was unlucky that I had not foreseen that."

The demon stood up next to John, latching onto his arm. "Forgive me, but I have been quite anxious to meet your son," he closed his eyes. Totally perplexed, John couldn't do anything but stare, watching the eyeballs swivel from side to side beneath his eyelids.

After a second, the demon gasped and then let out a chuckle, "I see. A hospital. One of my men is dead…and there is a pretty girl…curls, beautiful eyes and has a bit of a temper. Yes, Scrieber did have that effect on people. Ah, there he is. Yes, the boy with the mole—no, there are two boys!" his eyebrows furrowed, but his eyes still remained shut. "I see the other one survived…like a cockroach, wouldn't you say? Oh, how cute? Both are lying asleep held in each other's arms, without a doubt waiting for their father to return. It's just unfortunate they won't see you ever again. Once I'm done with you, make no mistake, I'll be paying your son a visit."

He opened his black empty pits, releasing John's arm. Obviously the bastard has the power of foresight. "I want to know why. What, were you planning on using these kids' energy, using it for your so-called visions?"

"Close. No, it's not just their energy that I want. Something more. Their powers, if you will?" the demon answered automatically.

The air left John in one great gasp. Powers?

The demon obviously saw John's puzzled expression. "Yes, powers. You didn't think that Azazel just wanted to tell them 'hello', did you? No I'm not entirely sure what Azazel was up to, and I don't need to know at this point. Due to your presence, I have no doubt you came with others. From my experience, hunters are like wolves, they like to travel in packs. Thus leads me to conclude the other children have been rescued. So that leaves one left, and I'm practically dying to meet your son. If he's anything like you, then it will be worth the wait. Besides, my time to chat with you is running out. Must leave to find more subjects."

"More shit-for-brain humans," John spoke, hoping to buy more time. He was stuck, and there was no way of getting around it. "Gotta say for a demon I'm impressed. Using humans to do your dirty work. They don't leave behind tracks, so we wouldn't know if it was a demon or not. Makes it look like a regular kidnapping. What'd you do, find the lowest bitter and strike up deals?"

"Quite right," the demon beamed, "It wasn't hard. Just had to nudge them in the right direction…promise them a few items here, a life of luxury there, and within no time they were groveling at my feet. Willing to do whatever I had asked them, whether it was right or wrong. Sometimes there is no difference between us and them. We all strive for power."

John scoffed. "Not everyone."

"Ah that's right. Hunters are entirely different. They're a completely new species. There is no grey with them. There is no advantage, just revenge. Obsessed-driven. And yet, they lie, they steal, they cheat, and let's not forget the main one: kill. Hmm, yes, we're so different," he replied sarcastically receiving a harsh glare from the hunter. "But we can go all day long with this debate. Since I'm out of time, I must be off. Good bye."

John held his breath as the man approached, placing a hand over his head. At the touch, he could feel a pounding heat, terrible, drilling into his head. It was painful. He bit his tongue from crying out. If he was going to die, he was not going to cry like a little girl. The light overtop of his head brightened, along with the pain. His brain was going to be fried. Great! That's one way to go!

His vision began to blur when suddenly the sound of a gun went off. The hand, the heat, even the pain all went away instantly. Another gunshot sounded. Once his vision cleared, he saw Caleb standing in the doorway, covered with sweat and panting deeply—as if he just ran a marathon. John looked to the side and saw the demon jolted backwards from the hit to his midriff. Hearing the gun click yet again, John watched as another explosion of sparks lit up and suddenly the demon spiraled in the air, crashing out of the window, falling to the ground with a loud thud.

The force pinning John to the wall relinquished and he fell to his knees. Caleb ran up and patted his shoulder. "You okay, man?"

John spat out a wad of saliva, nodding. "Y-yeah," he grimaced, clutching his head, "That was a close call. Thanks for showing up when you did otherwise I'd be a turkeyroast."

"Any time old man," Caleb replied whole-heartedly lifting him up. "We gotta go. Bobby's at the car with all the kids. They are not happy campers and he's starting to grumble like a sonuvabitch."

Still clutching the side of his head, John ignored the last bit, waltzing over to the window. He looked out of it and down, a pang shooting through his heart when the demon was no where in sight. His mind instantly switched to Sam. The demon said he was next.

Turning around, he began to run, "Come on. I know where he's heading next. We gotta get to the hospital before he gets to Sam."

* * *

Whilst Bobby was appointed duty of returning all the missing children—a task the man valiantly took upon—John and Caleb were speeding down the highway. Holding an ice-pack to his head, John tried the Pastor's phone several times, receiving nothing but voicemail.

"Come on Jim. Pick up!!" he yelled exasperatedly. After dialing again and receiving another voicemail, the alarm bells began to ring in his head. He swore out loud. Turning to Caleb, he asked, "How fast can we get there?"

"To Dupont? Uh…three hours, two and a half if we're lucky," Caleb answered tentatively.

John huffed. That was not what he wanted to hear. "Dammit that's not enough time. The demon could already be there. Drive faster!"

Not in the mood to get quarrelsome, Caleb stayed quiet, pressing harder on the gas pedal. John tried Jim's phone again and began to wonder if the man forgot to charge it and it was dead. He tried to not think about the other reason. The demon, for sure, was already on his way. There was no possible way of knowing how he managed to get around. All he knew was his son was in harm's way, no thanks to his big mouth. Guilt on top of anxiety festered, creating an amalgam of un-needed stress. It was a done deal, he already had gray hairs.

Still holding the ice pack, fingering the dial-pad once more, he couldn't help but resort back to what the demon had relayed to him. The name Azazel certainly had struck a chord. He never heard of the name, but there were so many things he didn't know, it wouldn't surprise him if there was a demon or something out there named Azazel. And then when he mentioned the kids and their _powers_…

An awful queasy feeling in his gut formed. What exactly had the demon meant by that? And if he was correct, then did that mean Sam was apart of something? Did Sam had some unique ability? That queasiness developed into full-blown nausea. What if what Caleb had suggested a million years ago was true? And that this Azazel was perhaps the one who visited his nursery that God-awful night, and had somehow picked his boy to be apart of something? But no matter what, he was going to get to the bottom of it, even if it killed him in the process.

The longer he stewed on the subject, the more anxious he became. Either way, his son was in danger, and he had to get to him, keep him safe. He didn't like the idea one bit, but maybe whatever's happening right now is a glimpse of what's to come in the future. In that case, he probably needed to keep Sam under lock and key. Keep him within sight, of either him or his brother at all times. It wasn't going to be easy, judging by how rash Sam (and his brother) had acted when trying to save the Winslow's. John sighed. He was in for one hellavu fight.

But first, he needed to get to that hospital or he wouldn't have to worry about dreading Sammy's teenage years. Getting an idea, he dialed another number.

* * *

Everyone was asleep. It was almost too easy. There were no doctors, or nurses amidst in the hallways. It was apparent they were leaving this particular room alone. Disguised in an orderly outfit, the demon whistled softly, glancing around, before strolling into the quiet room. Seeing the couple, his other two men obviously met based on their appearance, were sound asleep. He looked up to the other bed in the room and saw his prize. The children also were sound asleep, wrapped into each other's embrace. The demon smiled. With no one around, taking the child would be as easy as pie.

Strutting over to the bed, he slid a wrinkly hand over the boy's side. The child moaned a little, wriggling into a more comfortable position. The demon beamed. He could sense this one's energy, and he knew this was the one he wanted all along. The one who would give him what he craved.

Gently rolling the boy out of the brother's grasp, he carefully picked him up. Sam blinked a little bit. "Dad?"

"Shhh. It's okay. Go back to sleep. I'm taking you to him," the demon coaxed.

Okay with that, Sam closed his eyes and snuggled against the man's chest. "What about Dean?" he asked.

"Shhh, he's coming too," he lied, cradling the boy towards the door. He was on the verge of victory when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Hey, where're you taking him?"

He turned and saw the tempestuous woman he saw in his vision sitting up in the bed, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

The demon sneered, then donned a false smile. "It's alright ma'me. I'm just taking him for a check-up. He'll be back in a few minutes."

Hannah blinked several times, now rubbing the side of her head. Registering the orderly's words, she disagreed. "Uh, no. No. If you need to do a check-up, you can do it right here in front of me."

"It'll just take a minute—"

"No," Hannah cut him off sternly, standing up. "He stays right here."

The demon glared. "I don't think so." He tilted his head up, sending the girl up and over, crashing into the other bed, waking Dean. The eleven-year-old woke with a start ("What the—") and quickly analyzed what he was seeing. A man was holding his baby brother, ready to take him out of the door. _Oh Hell No!_ Rolling over, he slammed his fist against the emergency button positioned on the wall next to the bed. The alarms immediately went off.

The demon growled. Not only was the boy in his arms awake, but now there were people running towards the room, blocking his escape. He eyed the window. Rushing back into the room, he ran over, now carrying Sam against his chest by the waist. The little boy struggled and wormed, clawing at his arm with his little fingernails. He even tried to bite, but it had no effect.

Suddenly the room was filled with people: doctors, nurses, orderlies. Hannah scrambled to her feet, clutching the side of her face. "Put him down," she bellowed.

The demon blinked, switching his irises from a cold blue to the dark black. Hannah paused in consternation, not really sure what she was seeing. Dean eye's also widened, as this was the first time he had seen a demon. "Put him down. You have no where else to go," Hannah hollered out loud.

Sam continued to squirm, until the man grasped his throat and pulled him up. He laughed.

"No. He's mine. And I'm not leaving here until I get what I want."

"Let him go," a strong male voice echoed. Dean and Hannah turned to see the Pastor emerge from the crowd of doctors, with his .45 armed and poised. "These are consecrated bullets. Stings like Hell. Now let the boy go." He continued to inch forward with a strong edge, Dean had never seen before. It was like the man was a completely different person.

The demon yanked the boy up again, showing he was not playing around. Sam whimpered. "Sorry. I waited too long for this." He waved a hand and the next second, the window shattered, bursting out of its frame. Now there was a large hole in the wall.

Jim didn't wait another second. He let off a couple of shots, risking Sam's safety he knew, hitting the demon in its shoulders. The man screeched in pain, straightening back up. Several of the nurses screamed and yelped at the gunshots.

"Let him go!" Jim demanded fiercely.

The demon gave off a haughty chuckle. "You have to do better than that," and he turned to jump.

"Sammy no!" Dean screamed, falling off his bed. The demon was about to jump out, taking his baby brother with him. Then suddenly an electrical shortage pulsated all throughout the room. All the lights grew bright and exploded, showering everyone in sparks. The room died down to black, which was interesting considering it was daytime. And the sound of a man screaming assaulted everyone's eardrums. Seconds later, the generator lights came back on, the darkness lifting, revealing Sam lying on the floor, shaking, and the man vanished.

Dean and Hannah both spurred into action. Hannah was the first to reach Sam, gathering him into an embrace. Dean limped over and fell by his side, hugging onto his quivering sibling, wondering just what in the Hell just happened.

He looked over and saw the Pastor was wondering the same thing. Jim came over, peered carefully out of the hole in the wall, searching for their dear demon friend. But there was nothing in sight. A doctor came forward to scope out the area too. Catching the Pastor's indignant glare, he backed away ushering the staff out. Still uneasy about the demon's departure, Jim was glad he made it in time. It was smart of John to call the hospital desk's number, given his cell died during the time he took a little cat-nap. He wasn't sure what happened to the demon, but given its terrible screams, nothing good.

Kneeling down to Hannah and the upset youngsters, he reassured them it was over now. The demon was gone and they were safe.

Approximately two hours and forty-five minutes later, Caleb's mustang grounded to a halt in front of the hospital's doors. John anxiety

* * *

increased ten-fold after his phone-call to Jim. It wasn't twenty minutes later when the Pastor called him back retelling the events. It was then John rolled down the window and vomited. There wasn't much as he mostly ran on a liquid diet, but there was enough to get Caleb pissed off. The demon nearly got away and with Sam. It was another close call. Thanking Jim for being there when he was, he hung up-telling Caleb to hurry.

The car wasn't at a full stop when he opened the door and ran out. Not bothering with the elevator, he took the stairs, three at a time, up to the ICU unit. Barging into the room unannounced (his usual entry), the first thing he saw was his two kids sitting on a bed with Hannah, apprehensive—as if they were waiting for him. It was confirmed when they stiffened at the sight of him. The first thing he did was shot across the room and took them both into one big bear hug.

Allowing the family a moment, Hannah stood up and went over to the other two occupants in the room, John had not seen. There was a tall scrawny woman with frizzy white hair pulled back into a bun, along with a man dressed in overalls and a red-flannel shirt and a toad-like face with dark bushy eyebrows. They appeared fairly young, but given the mass of wrinkles, both had seen a lot of strife in their years.

Tiredly, Hannah approached them. "Aunt Millie…" Normally Hannah always called Jared's aunt 'auntie' or his uncle 'unc' but now she found it improper to call them that. "If you don't mind, I need to talk with Mr. Winchester, alone. Just for a minute."

Millie picked up the hint that it was best to come back tomorrow. "Sure it's fine. We'll come back tomorrow," she replied in a sweet voice. She hugged Hannah, and kissed her cheek. "You stay strong for Jared. He'll come through. When his parent's were killed in that crash, he was the strongest one out of all of us. Losing my sister was the hardest thing I ever had to go through. Even though he was seventeen at the time, he got me and his uncle, and his good-for-nothing cousin through it. Remember that. Take care honey, and we'll see you tomorrow."

Her husband said nothing, but also gave Hannah a stiff hug before filing behind his wife.

As they left, Hannah waited.

It was a good minute before John let go of his kids. He wanted to wallop their respective behinds, but given what they had just gone through, he decided to wait to delegate punishment…and there will be a punishment. Looking them square in their little eyes, he said, "You two are in so much trouble. You are grounded for the rest of your life."

Dean bowed his head. "Yes sir. We figured as much."

John huffed taking them up into another hug. After another minute, he released them and walked towards Mrs. Winslow, who appeared to be waiting for him. He silently gulped.

"Mrs. Winslow?" Stepping in front of her, he was not at all prepared for the slap across his face. Understanding it was what he deserved, he looked away cowardly, "Mrs. Winslow, I—"

"I don't care what you have to say," Hannah interrupted, "Your friend filled me in on everything. And if I had half a heart, I'd have you locked up good and tight." She breathed, glancing at the kids who watched in shock, "But I don't. It wouldn't be good for them. Those boys need their father."

John took a deep breath, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. He would much rather be fighting the demon than deal with an angry Missus. "I understand how you feel and I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you, only that I had my reasons—"

"You lied to us. You lied even in court, reassuring us that the suspects were caught and that everything was okay," she said with tears forming. "Now don't you _dare_ stand there and tell me you didn't expect something like this to happen, not when you knew those assholes were still out there."

John stayed quiet. He deserved every bit of harsh statement he received. "My son's safety was more important—"

"I understand that. And you're right. But you could've given us fair warning," she relayed in a deadly whisper, mainly so the kids wouldn't hear, "And you had better hope my husband makes it, or so help me God, I will make your life miserable."

The severity of the tone only made John realize she meant every word. Now he had an idea of what Jim was talking about. Hannah could be scary if she wanted to be. He stole a glance at her husband, noting the pale color of his skin and dead-like stillness. It was not in his favor, but he had to stay positive.

"I understand, and I deserve it. And my kids are probably looking at me expecting me to do something, but the truth is I am unsure of what I can do at this point. I know there isn't anything that can make up for what I've done to you and your husband…but if there's anything, I'll be happy to help you out with anything you want, anything you need," he gazed at her innocently, hoping she'll reconsider.

The woman gaped at him tiresomely, obviously considering his offer. There was a long moment before she cocked the side of her head. "Anything?"

"Anything."

She smirked.

**That's end of that chappie. Phew, you tired yet? Well, I could've made this into two chapters, but then I decided 'nah'. There's one more to go! John's still in the dog-house, but at least he's warming up to Hannah. Keep going and find out what exactly happened to our demon pal. **


	25. Chapter 25

(Chapter 25)

**And hoorah! You made it! Cue victory dance! Here it is boys and girls, the finale. It's been a joy to write, definitely taking up a large chunk of my summer. I hope you like it! Tootles!**

He snarled, fuming that he was so close. He had the child, the exit was open. How could it have gone awry?

The demon, now huddled inside a lonely motel room, sulked and pondered, sitting on a musty bed. Biting his thumb nail, pissed off, he wondered just what exactly had happened. First there was an electrical surge, and then next the room was black. He felt an incredible force bore down upon him, jerking him painfully, then suddenly he found himself inside this room.

He was so angry; objects around him were levitating off the ground. Catching sight of a bible floating off the dresser, his eye twitched and the book was torn asunder. He had no knowledge of what powers-at-be transported him from one place to another, and he wasn't dumb enough to go outside yet, in case the perp were around.

No, he'd bide his time, give the little darlings a bit of time to cool down and forget about this little experience before he would come back and take what he deserved when their guard was down. He only hoped it was soon, because he wasn't sure how much longer his vessel would keep in tact. In the mean time, he would have to settle for lonely adults or drifters—their energy wasn't as invigorating and pure as a child's—but nevertheless it could keep him going.

A knock sounded at the door. It startled him. Everything floating around him fell to the floor. Careless, he ignored the knock, until it turned into a harsh pounding. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he went to open it, feeling the urge to kill someone. Might as well be this asshole.

The asshole turned out to be the motel's manager, according to the nameplate on his shirt. He was a large, greasy and sweaty man with dark balding hair, and was wearing a dirty apron. The demon was disgusted, but let him in. Well, it was more the man barged in. He spoke in a gruff bark, "You're over a week late in payment, pal. Now either you get out or you hand over the bucks."

A scowl worked its way on the demon's face. He was so not in the mood for this. "I don't have it yet."

"Not good enough. I want it now," the man extended out a meaty paw. "Come on. Or you get out."

Yep, time to kill the porky bastard. The demon smirked. "Yes you'll have it. It's in my vehicle out in the parking lot. I'll follow you out."

The greasy man eyed him suspiciously, before giving a curt nod. "Fine," and he walked towards the door. The tiny smirk was instantly replaced with a grizzled sneer. He had no intention of walking out the door. Taking a knife out of his back pocket, the demon released it, the knife levitating in the air. Tilting his head up, he sent the weapon hurtling at the back of the manager's head.

Suddenly the man raised his arm up in time, the knife steering away, shooting at and embedding itself into the wall. "Uh uh uh Renostro," the man said, now speaking in a smooth accent. "It wouldn't be wise to kill the man in charge. People might talk."

The demon's eyes widened at hearing his main name being called. He backed up in alarm when the greasy manager turned his head, revealing pale yellow orbs. "Azazel."

The manager turned completely around. "Good evening Renostro. It sure has been a long while. How have you been?"

The demon refused to answer. His growing apprehension reached sky-high when the demon leader began to walk towards him.

Azazel smiled. "A bit shy on the tongue there? Your current meat-suit appears better. Of course, it would be better for you if you were able to leave it. But due to that lovely little mark on your neck, you are unable to," he laughed, "That's what happens when you scorn a witch. Even demons of the highest rank are not so immune to the deepest of black magic."

Renostro backed all the way up to the wall. Deep down, he knew there was no escape in this one.

"Still a little quiet, eh? How quaint?" Azazel folded the man's meaty arms, "You may be wondering why I am here, or why I took you from that hospital and placed you here. I'll be glad to tell you. So not too long ago, a little birdie flies to me and tells me of a traitor wiggling in on the circuit. And that apparently he tried to pull a few tricks up his sleeve in order to find out what I've been up to. And funny that word has it that this so called melodramatic traitor finds out all about my children and wishes to use them to plot against me. Hmm, rumors now-a-days, they are interesting. As well as their sources."

Desperate, the demon spoke, "Sir it is silly of you to believe such rumors. You never can rely upon who leaks them. You never know who holds a grudge."

The yellow eyes glinted with amusement. "Indeed, you are right. But the great thing about my fellow sources, when you put them in the right position, it is incredibly difficult for them to lie. And word has it that you nearly took all my children and tried to awaken their powers ahead of schedule, in either attempting to gain their power for your own use or to ruin their purpose…either way it puts me at a great loss and all my hard work goes for nothing," he glared. "But I questioned it. Why would a demon, who already has the gift of foresight, try to acquire more powers…and then it came to me. He wouldn't, unless there was another goal involved. One that intends on destroying the main plan."

"No," the cowering demon shook his head.

Azazel continued. "So I looked into it. And using humans to do your work, making deals with them- that way to fool hunters. Must say I was impressed. You had thought this one through."

"I beg of you, that is not how I intended it to be—"

"Ah, but I beg to differ," Yellow-eyes cut in, "See I made a little visit to the kids you let loose, the ones you drained completely. Is it not indeed that you feel much stronger than before, taking their life-force, in hopes of acquiring their soon-to-be talent?"

The demon turned away.

Yellow-eyes nodded in conclusion. "I figured as much. But luckily for them, the effects were reversible and they can go on with their peppy miserable lives until I need them again. You, however, is a different matter. You're like the worm in the middle of the apple. Once inside, the apple is ruined. But that's perfectly satisfactory. Do you know what happens to that worm once it is found?"

Renostro whimpered in fright. "No sir please. I had no intention—"

"You need to understand there is a price when it comes to meddling in my affairs."

"No sir, please I beg of you. I shall never attempt to disdain you ever again."

Azazel glowered. "I know." His eyes suddenly grew bright and swiftly he bore down upon the demon. All that could be heard through the lonely motel was the dying screams of the demon, never to be heard or seen again.

* * *

_One month later:_

Jared had been home for less than a week, and already he was inching to get out of bed and back to work in his basement. It was a slow recovery, one that he already had experienced before, but that didn't lessen his anxiousness any more. Hannah kept him in line, however, forcing him to remain in bed or otherwise she'd take away the TV in their bedroom. To which he acquiesced to defeat, knowing the attitude his wife had been in lately, she would have carried out the threat without a second thought.

The hospital had been his sanctuary for the past three weeks. He had awoken sometime within the first week, exhausted and weak beyond relief. Even though now, he felt rejuvenated, he still had a long way to go. Sometimes, it was bothersome as simple tasks like coming down the newly steam-cleaned stairs would tire him out and he'd have to take a nap immediately afterward.

Since his memory was on a long vacation, he asked his wife what exactly happened after they last departed in the basement. He should've known not to ask, because only Hannah would be sarcastic about it, telling him "I told ya you needed all the help you can get. It's a full time job being the damsel, isn't it?" To which, he figured that meant 'don't ask'. Since he trusted Hannah with his life, he didn't.

The boys had stayed with them the entire time. The father was MIA as usual, but according to Hannah, he and his buddies were rebuilding and cleaning parts of their home as repayment for all they had done and endured. He didn't believe it, until it was time to come home and he saw all that had been done. Though exhausted, he made sure he thanked the father good and proper.

Sam and Dean continued to stay at the house, keeping Hannah company when he couldn't. His aunt and uncle came by often to help out, caring, cooking, and overall spending time with them. It was a nice change. And for once, Uncle Ted didn't go into his fishing stories. Billie hadn't bothered to come since Hannah was still not in a good mood. She often scoffed whenever his name was mentioned.

It was awhile before Hannah finally struck up the courage to confront John. Instead of harassing him, she sucked up her pride and thanked him for all that he had done. And then she did something he never once thought it would happen: she forgave him. Though she continually glanced at Sam while speaking to him, giving John the clue that she had a long chat with his boy. He didn't expect it, so he was thankful. For once in his life, he was thankful for the kindness of some people. It was a hard thing to find in most places now-a-days.

Soon it came time to part ways. Once the big news frenzy about all the rescued children being safely delivered to their family, and the miraculous event of all the previously found children back to normal, as if nothing had happened to them, died down, it was time to get back on the road. The authorities wasn't able to get anything out of the kids about who had taken them and to where; they only had a little boy named Andy's word saying 'It was Jesus who saved us, and he bought us a happy meal'. With no evidence or any suspects, the case was closed.

His fellow hunters Bobby and Caleb had taken off, probably back home to rest and recoop. John told them to be on call, no doubt he'd have another hunt ready for them. Only when they turned their phones off that gave John their answer on that one. John was appreciative of it. It was time to settle down for awhile and spend time with his boys. He thought it was going to be another battle in taking the kids away from the Winslow's, but it appeared his son came through yet again.

Standing by the porch, it took Hannah the longest time to stop hugging Sam. First she hugged Dean and kissed his cheek. "We'll see you around Dean."

Dean gave his snarky smile and turned around mumbling, "Thank God no cheek-pinchers."

"Oh you little puttam there," Jared bent down and cheek-pinched him with his free hand. The other one was still in a sling.

"Man, you suck," Dean scowled, rubbing his cheek and walking away.

Jared laughed, clutching his sore side. "Goodbye to you too Dean. Don't forget, if you ever need any mechanic advice, you know the number."

Dean smiled, waving. "You betcha. Bye man!" and hopped in the car where his father was waiting.

Sam didn't want to let go of Hannah. It was until his father calmly stated, "Sam it's time to go" that he let go. He sniffed. Even if it was his decision to leave, he didn't do well with goodbyes.

Hannah smiled. "Oh Sam, it's not going to be goodbye forever. You have our address. You'll write to us every single day, right?"

He stepped back wiping his eyes nodding.

"You promise?"

"I promise," he replied.

"Good. We love you Sam. Always will. And if you ever need a place to go, you know where to find us."

Still nodding, he gave the couple one last hug. John called his name one final time, and then he ran off, hopping in the muscle-car alongside his brother. The couple stayed at the door, teary-eyed until the Impala drove away. It wasn't a grim goodbye like it had been before. It was a cheery good-bye, and one they would never forget.

* * *

_Thirteen years later:_

_Stanford University Campus._

Sam Winchester sat on a bench, his legs shaking nervously. The sun shined down on top of his back, giving him a splendid feeling of warmth, and a nice gentle breeze blew through roughing up his already messy hair. It felt nice, but it did nothing to quell his nervousness. He wasn't even this nervous when he opened his acceptance letter to Stanford, or when he had to reveal the heart-breaking news that he was leaving to his father and brother. He checked his watch, reading five minutes til four in the afternoon.

His leg bounced up more violently. Standing up, reaching his now 6'4 height, he checked around the campus, admiring the groups of students walking, laughing, and overall enjoying themselves. It was something he had wanted for a so long and finally he could have it: safety, friends, and possibly a social life-one where no one would view him as a freak because he had to carry a butterfly knife. That was the main reason he left. He hadn't wanted to—but a sense of normalcy was what he craved for the longest time. He couldn't have that growing up with his father and brother, not with what he knew about the supernatural world. The three had grown so tight-knit, it was practically suffocating. His father hardly allowed him to do anything on his own. It was time to get away.

And that's why he had wanted to meet them again. He hadn't seen them since he last left their porch, the memory of their last encounter a little hazy, but he could never forget them. It was nearly Four o'clock and his anxiety was about to put him into a convulsive fit. It was hard being patient.

"Sam?"

He froze at hearing the familiar sweet voice. Turning around, he was suddenly filled with joy as he once again was reunited with the couple Hannah and Jared. A big smile crossed his features. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow."

Hannah pursed her lips. "Sam! What did I tell you about calling us Mr. and Mrs. Winslow? You know it's Hannah and Jared," she laughed rushing forward and gave him a big hug. She came up to his shoulder now, and she hardly seemed to age at all. There were a couple wrinkles around her eyes, but for everything else she seemed entirely fit. Once Hannah released him, Jared shook his hand and then gave him a big hug. He too seemed to have hardly aged at all. He still supported a limp, but he still supported that handsome smile.

"It's been such a long time."

"I know."

"Sam. It's so good to see you again. My God, have you gotten tall!" Hannah exclaimed, running a hand through his hair, "hmm, and handsome."

"Thank you," he replied modestly.

"It's so good you're going here. From what you told me all these years in your letters, I think you're going to love it. I've been here for five years and I absolutely adorn it, so does Big Stuff here!" she pointed an elbow into her husband's waist. "He's actually taking a couple course, can you believe that?"

Sam smiled feebly. "Yeah! Well, I hope to come love it here. And I have to thank you so much. If it wasn't for your recommendation, I probably would have never gotten in here."

"Sam," Hannah admonished, "You're too modest. You would have gotten in here by a landslide, that there is no question about."

Sam smiled sheepishly.

Jared turned around and waved for someone to come over. "Hey Sam, hope you don't mind, but we sort of invited someone. Definitely someone you need to meet. You might like her."

The twenty-year old developed an interested expression, then caught sight of a stunning blonde ambling towards them. Rather shy, his jaw fell slightly agape, shocked at how beautiful she was. She had long curls, a tall slender body, and the one thing that caught his attention was her eyes. They were as blue as the sky and he sort of felt all warm and fuzzy inside. He was unaware of his behavior until Hannah nudged him in the side. It was then he noticed the blonde was already standing next to Jared, staring at him. He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair.

Hannah caught his fidgety antics out of the corner of her eye and smirked. "Sam? We'd like you to meet Jessica Moore. She's been a student here for about a year, so far the top in my class."

The young girl smiled sheepishly, and Sam felt his legs begin to buckle. He caught himself in time, though.

"I try," she replied modestly.

"Oh come on, you're just too modest. See you two have something in common. And Sam, I hear she is an excellent campus tour guide."

"Oh really," Sam said, giving a smile of his own.

"Yep. So how about it Jess, ya want to give Sam a tour of the campus?" Jared asked.

"Uh sure, I don't mind," she responded, "Come on."

Sam didn't say anything, just nodded his head like a lost puppy, gulping when she took his hand.

The couple stood back, watching the two carry on. They couldn't hear them conversing, but from the look of it, the tall geek and the beautiful girl got along perfectly. Jared smirked, wrapping an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Told ya. I always knew they were made for each other."

"Hmm, you always were the matchmaker, weren't you?"

"And don't you forget it."

**End.**

It's done. _It's done!_ Holy crap, it's done!!! It took me awhile, but there it is: the end. I want to thank everyone who read, reviewed, pm'd, gave me a suggestion, or helped me out in anyway possible with this. It is you guys, the readers, that make this such a wonderful experience. I love to write and I love getting your reviews, telling me exactly what to work on, what you liked, what you disliked, and all that jazz! You guys are awesome in every way possible. Having said that, leave me a review and I'll get back to you. I loved talking (or typing) to you guys! It's all part of the experience that I have been blessed to partake in.

I do have other fics on board. If you want more, just let me know! If you want to see something specific, I do love a challenge. It might take me a little bit to get them up, but nevertheless they will be posted. Especially a sequel to my other story that I'm finally getting around to. And a new fic that I think might give some people a few chills. I gave my roommate a snippet of it and she said it nearly scared her to death, so I hope that's something. Anyway, the point is…**I'll be back!**

Thanks guys. Love ya lots!

Joby ;p


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